


Full Court Press

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Basketball, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Sports, Anal Sex, Basketball, Coming Out, First Kiss, First Time, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Locker room blowjobs are not an NCAA-approved activity, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Switching, Unilock, college basketball, probably more dialogue than basketball if i know myself at all, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 126,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has accepted a scholarship to play basketball at the College of St. Bartholomew's.  He expects to be their star player and turn the team's losing record around.  He does not expect to fall in love with the team's captain, a certain scrappy point guard named John Watson. </p><p> <em> Or:</em> Sherlock is the team's best shooter. John is the team's best ball-handler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iriswallpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/gifts).



> Sorry for the influx of notes here! I know a lot of readers might not know too much about basketball, so I am going to use the chapter notes to explain the sport as needed. I don't want to dump everything about basketball and its rules all at once, so I'm just including the relevant information for each chapter as needed. I promise the story itself will not be overwhelmingly sports-centered--it will be focused on Sherlock's and John's relationship, too.
> 
> Education terms in the U.S.: This fic is about Sherlock and John when they are in university, although their school is generally referred to as a college. The terms "college" and "university" are often used interchangeably to describe the four years of higher education that are known as university elsewhere. "High school" refers to the four years of secondary education prior to college. In this fic, Sherlock spent the last three years of secondary school at a private high school in the U.S.
> 
> General info on college athletics:
> 
> -The NCAA (National Collegiate Athletic Association) is the body that regulates college athletics. Colleges are generally separated into three divisions for athletic purposes. Division I schools are usually the largest and offer the most competitive level of play. These are the schools you are most likely to see playing sports on television. Athletes who play in Division I usually have their tuition paid for by athletic scholarships. Most players who turn professional after college come from Division I schools. Division II also awards scholarships to players, but the level of play is not as high as at Division I. Division III is the least competitive, and the schools cannot award scholarships for athletics. In this story Sherlock and John are playing basketball at the College of St. Bartholomew's, a fictional Division II college. 
> 
> -Athletes are eligible to play a sport for four years, the usual time it takes to get a college degree. In certain circumstances, if a player misses a year of playing, they may "redshirt" that season and be allowed an extra year of eligibility to play, as long as they are still enrolled at the school. 
> 
> Basic information on playing positions in basketball:
> 
> Each team has 5 players on the court at one time. Usually there are two guards, two forwards and a center, though any combination of positions is allowable. 
> 
> Guards are usually shorter players who focus on offense or shooting the ball. The point guard is the player who often controls the play, setting the pace, running the offensive plays and passing the ball to players in the best position to score. The point guard needs to have exceptional ball-handling skills. (Dribbling and passing—get your mind out of the gutter. This fic isn't explicit yet). The other guard is often referred to as a shooting guard, and may specialize in—you guessed it—shooting the ball. Guards generally take shots from farther away from the basket than the larger players, mainly due to size; it can be more difficult for a smaller player to score if they are very close to the players on defense, since they would be shooting over the heads of taller players. 
> 
> Forwards are usually bigger and taller than guards. The center is often the tallest player on the team and is the one who will jump for the ball during the tip-off that starts the game. Players in these positions tend to stay nearer to the basket than guards and score more of their points from up close. They also often get more rebounds (retrieving the ball after a missed shot) and block more of their opponents' shots than guards do. Forwards are sometimes further classified as either a small forward or a power forward.
> 
> Every single person who has been on _Sherlock_ with the possible exception of Magnussen would be a guard if they were playing at the collegiate level. Even Mycroft, not that he would deign to play basketball. Oh--that assassin in The Great Game, the Golem: he could be a center.

"For God's sake, Anderson, leave me alone!" Sherlock raised his voice to compensate for the fact that his face was buried in his pillow in an attempt to block out the light leaking in around the dorm room's heavy plastic blinds. He knew he should've insisted on having the bed farthest from the window.

"But it's almost 8:30, Sherlock." God, could Anderson's voice get any whinier? Yes, apparently it could. "If we don't go to breakfast now we won't have time to eat before the team meeting."

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied, and resolved not to move or speak again until Anderson left. Fortunately it seemed his new roommate was either very hungry or fairly impatient, because he gave up trying to rouse Sherlock after that. Sherlock could hear him puttering about, looking for his key and id card and then came the blissful sound of the door clicking closed behind him.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over onto his back, wondering what he would do if the rest of the players on the College of St. Bartholomew's basketball team were as annoying as Anderson. Not that he expected to be friends with a bunch of overgrown athletes, but he enjoyed playing exponentially more when his teammates weren't complete idiots. And smarter players won more games; he couldn't do it all by himself, much as he might want to, not at this level. Division II might not be the highest level of college sport, but it was still extremely competitive. Like Sherlock, most of the players were here on athletic scholarships and everyone took the game of basketball very, very seriously. 

Unfortunately, Philip Anderson was the only other player Sherlock had met since moving in yesterday. Anderson was a junior, two years ahead of Sherlock in school; according to the letter Sherlock had received last month, they'd been matched by the coaching staff in the hopes that Anderson would serve as Sherlock's mentor, scholastically, socially and athletically, but Sherlock had known within two minutes of meeting him that the older player was an idiot who would do nothing but pester him for the rest of the year. 

Sherlock was just falling back to sleep when Anderson returned. "Come on, get up! We have to be there in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes halfway. "It's a voluntary meeting. Who cares?"

"I care. Coach Lestrade cares." Anderson tried to pull the covers off Sherlock but Sherlock had wrapped himself in the bedsheet so he couldn't. "It's only voluntary because we're not allowed to have any official team events until the season starts in October. We still have to go. We're expected to be there."

"Well, I _expected_ to sleep late this morning. Classes don't start until Monday." Not that he planned to attend his classes regularly, but he would probably go for the first week or two, just to see if college courses were any more interesting than his high school classes had been.

"Come on, Sherlock. Don't you want to meet the rest of the team?"

 _Not if they are anything like you._ He growled his displeasure and then kicked off the sheets and rolled out of bed. He was tempted to skip the meeting just to annoy Anderson, but he was curious about the rest of the team. He'd met a few of the players last year when he'd visited the campus, and talked to Coach Lestrade several times, but since he had committed to spending the next four years of his life here it would be nice to have a little more information on the people he would be spending it with. 

Anderson sat on the foot of his own bed and waited while Sherlock stripped off the shorts and t-shirt he had slept in and rummaged through his half-unpacked suitcases for appropriate clothing. Black basketball shorts were not the most flattering look for anyone, but he wanted to look the part of an athlete. He was tall but not unusually so, and while he had bulked up a little in the past couple of years he was still thin for a college player. And even though at 19 he was older than most of the other first-year students, he knew he didn't look it; his face remained stubbornly young even as the rest of his body continued to mature. He threw on the shorts and then found his favorite compression tee; he had already unpacked it into the room's small dresser. He pulled it over his head and heard Anderson gasp.

"You can't wear that shirt!"

"Why not?" 

"The team has a contract with Nike."

"But I like Under Armour." Sherlock looked down at his chest. It was a very flattering fit. 

"Our team uniforms and warm-ups are Nike."

"Well, when we get them I'll wear them. Until then, I look good in this." He smoothed the shirt down to cover his waist.

Anderson snorted and shook his head. "I should've realized how vain you were when I saw all that hair product you brought." He nodded toward the shower tote that sat on Sherlock's dresser. "Come on, we're going to be late."

Sherlock brought a hand up to his head and realized he wouldn't have time to do anything about his hair without giving Anderson both a reason to be angry with him and fuel for teasing. Sometimes it was just easier to behave the way other guys expected. He grabbed the baseball cap he'd gotten from the college when he signed his letter of intent last spring and shoved it onto his head. It couldn't quite contain all of his curls but it would have to do. 

Anderson wouldn't shut up as they crossed the campus. He droned on about uniforms and behavior and how the team needed to present a consistent image and be good role models and a bunch of other drivel that Sherlock had heard before and didn't care about. As they passed the Doyle Student Center a couple of girls called out to Anderson and he immediately detoured to talk to them. Basketball groupies, ugh, but Anderson was basking in their attention, even though he'd told Sherlock his girlfriend played on the women's team. Sherlock stood behind him for a few seconds and then saw the moment for what it was: an opportunity to slip away. 

Doyle Center had a coffee shop, and Anderson didn't appear to notice him leave. He spent a few minutes longer than strictly necessary waiting for his coffee to cool so he could take a sip and check if he'd added enough sugar, then left the building through the back door. Anderson seemed to think he would get lost if he didn't have a guide to shepherd him around, but Sherlock had memorized the campus map weeks ago and yesterday he'd walked back and forth across the school's grounds twice and he now knew exactly where everything was. Not only was the back of Doyle closer to the Martha Hudson Athletic and Recreation Center, using the back door also allowed him a little more time before he had to be in Anderson's presence again.

He walked down the hill toward the athletic center, trotting a little as the incline changed. From what he'd seen so far, there wasn't a whole lot of difference between Northwest Ohio, where he'd gone to prep school, and upstate New York, home of Barts College. Both schools were situated more than an hour away from any large cities and the same generic chain shops and restaurants surrounded both campuses. The only real difference he'd noticed was how much hillier the landscape was here in New York. Supposedly the winters were worse in New York, but Sherlock wasn't sure he actually believed that; it had been awfully cold and snowy in Ohio compared to where he'd grown up in England and he couldn't imagine it being any worse here.

Even though most of the college's students were just moving into their dorms this weekend, there were still quite a few people walking toward the athletic center. He followed a couple of women dressed in workout clothes in through the building's wide glass doors; they turned to the left and headed toward the fitness center while he went to the right toward the basketball court. 

Anderson was waiting for him at the end of the hall, ready to pick up where he'd left off with his nagging. "Where did you go, Sherlock? You were following me and then you were gone."

Sherlock didn't bother answering, just held up the cup of coffee he'd bought while Anderson had been busy flirting.

"You shouldn't be drinking that. It's not good for athletes of our caliber to be dependent on caffeine. Your body is a temple, don't you know that? You should've gotten up when I did and come to breakfast. It's very important to have a healthy breakfast when we're in training."

Sherlock took a slow sip of his coffee and stared at Anderson until his lecture finally petered out. Where to even begin finding fault with that little speech? The basketball season didn't start for another month and a half, so they weren't actually in training yet. Sleep was as important as breakfast, and yet Sherlock had been kept up late listening to Anderson prattle on about how much he would love college life. He was pretty sure he and Anderson were not remotely the same caliber of athlete; he'd seen the statistics from last season. Anderson wouldn't have even played if the starting point guard hadn't gotten injured in the first game and sat out the rest of the season. And if Anderson really thought caffeine was the worst thing Sherlock had ever put into his body.... Well, at least it meant all the stories about Sherlock's past and how he'd ended up at a prep school in America in the first place hadn't followed him here to Barts. 

When Sherlock didn't respond to his scolding, Anderson sniffed and turned to wave his arm toward the entrance to the gym. "Well, come on, then, the meeting's starting. Let's not keep Coach waiting." He turned away and hurried down the hall, once again expecting Sherlock to follow without question.

Sherlock waited for him to disappear around the corner before finishing his coffee and tossing the cup into a trash can nearby. Better to make an entrance by himself than at Anderson's side. He squared his shoulders and strode down the hall, though when he finally reached the door to the gym he couldn't help but pause briefly before he stepped across the threshold. 

_It's a lot bigger than the gymnasium at Hartswood Prep._ He wondered at what point in the last three years he'd started thinking of the basketball court as being housed in a gymnasium instead of a sports hall. Probably around the time he'd refused his parents' pleas to return to England for university and instead accepted the scholarship St. Barts had offered him to play basketball. _It was the right decision._ Though the frequency with which he'd had to keep reminding himself of that lately was a bit worrying. 

It wasn't that he was homesick. He hadn't lived at home other than during school breaks since he was 15, when Mum and Dad had first shipped him off to preparatory school in America. He remembered feeling out of place when he'd first started at Hartswood, too, but as soon as he'd discovered basketball that feeling had vanished, and he'd known he belonged. That would happen here, too, he was certain. All he had to do was walk across the gym and meet the rest of team, pick up a ball and show them what he could do. He lifted his chin and stepped through the doorway, keeping his pace to an easy, confident saunter as he crossed the empty floor to approach his new team.

Everyone was gathered at the far end of the court. Coach Lestrade and one of his assistants were standing up but all of the players were either lounging on the first couple of rows of bleachers or sprawled on the floor along the sidelines, joking and laughing with each other. Even Anderson had found someone who would talk to him; he sat on the floor, leaning back against the metal bench, chatting with a giant blond guy with a scruffy goatee. Sherlock mentally scrolled through the list of players and their stats that he'd memorized until he found a match: Jakub Brzezinski: 6'9", 255 pounds. Sophomore who would probably play center this year. He was from Poland, the only other international player besides Sherlock. He wrinkled his nose in distaste for Brzezinski's choice of conversational partners and let his gaze travel over the rest of the team. There was a wide range of height and weight and skin color, but they were all dressed in similar clothes, like Sherlock, marking themselves as athletes before students. No one looked his way as he walked toward them and his steps faltered for a moment before he reminded himself that would change once they were on the court.

Coach Lestrade turned around as Sherlock reached the edge of the group. "Sherlock, welcome." He smiled and gestured toward the bleachers. "Have a seat." 

Sherlock nodded a greeting and took one long step up three rows of the metal seats so he could sit as far from Anderson as possible. He folded himself into a sitting position, leaving a foot of space between him and—he glanced out of the corner of his eye, trying to identify the player next to him without staring. About three inches taller than Sherlock, quite a bit heavier, dark skin, hair cut in a bushy Afro: Antoine Jenkins, another sophomore, started at small forward last year, second highest scorer on the team. Very respectable as a player; Sherlock didn't mind sitting by him. 

Lestrade waved his hand in the air, counting the players gathered in front of him. "Everyone's here but Watson, but he's going to be a little late so we'll just get started."

"What, he thinks he gets to make a late entrance just because he's a big grad student now or something?" Jenkins laughed and bumped his leg against the leg of the guy next to him, then looked to Sherlock for confirmation that he was being funny. _Hilarious._ Sherlock tried to make himself smile and crossed Jenkins off his list of teammates whose presence might not be unbearable.

The assistant coach sat down at the far end of the section of bleachers and Lestrade clapped his hands once before beginning. "Okay, so, welcome back, Bloodhounds. And those of you who are new, welcome to the team."

Instead of listening, Sherlock let his hands dangle between his knees and studied the way his wrists bent when he relaxed all the muscles in his arms. He liked Lestrade well enough but public speaking was definitely not his strong point. He'd obviously spent time preparing today's speech, but it was still repetitive and full of clichés; constantly calling everyone Bloodhounds after the school's mascot was only the beginning. Fortunately, Sherlock knew that Lestrade's coaching abilities far outstripped his oratorical skills. Someone looking at the team's record for the past few seasons might not think so, but considering that two years ago nearly half the team had quit and transferred to other schools, Sherlock thought the coach had done a respectable job. Sherlock himself had no qualms about playing for a school whose home court was in a building named for a man arrested and convicted of triple murder, but apparently a number of other players did. Anyway, Frank Hudson's ex-wife had stepped in and given the school another extremely generous donation and they'd re-named the sports complex after her, so problem solved. And after two years of rebuilding the team, Sherlock thought Lestrade once again had a roster of which he could be proud. They were going to win games this year; Sherlock knew it. He wouldn't have accepted the scholarship to play at Barts if he thought otherwise. 

Lestrade was still going on with his boring welcome to the team speech, so Sherlock tried to distract himself by examining all the banners that hung from the gym's ceiling. League tournament championships, division champions, players named to the All-America teams: but none of the years cited were recent. It was a lot to hope that they could go from a losing record to having their names immortalized on a championship banner in the space of one year, but Sherlock was nothing if not optimistic when it came to his own basketball prowess. He'd won games in high school; he would do the same here in college. He let his gaze wander over to the empty space where a new banner would hang after this season and caught a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye as the steel door at the far side of the gym opened. At first he thought some random student had stumbled in, not realizing the space was reserved for their team meeting, but on second glance he recognized the late arrival as none other than John Watson, former starting point guard whose shoulder injury had allowed Anderson to enjoy an undeserved amount of playing time last year. 

He'd heard about Watson, of course; it was a pretty well-known story on campus, how he'd been injured and missed most of last year's games and had been granted a medical redshirt so he could play again this year instead of graduating with his class. Lots of mid-level athletes chose to cling to a college career as long as possible rather than realizing their best days were behind them and moving on. Watson's story wouldn't be notable at all, except for the fact that he'd apparently been admitted to medical school and had deferred admission for a year so he could play one final season at Barts. That was mildly intriguing, Sherlock had to admit. Most of the serious athletes he knew weren't quite up to the academic standards of the average medical school admissions' board.

His scholastic achievements weren't Watson's only unusual feature: he was also quite short. No wonder Sherlock hadn't recognized him as a fellow basketball player at first glance. He would have been considered short even for a third-string high school basketball player, never mind a starting point guard on a college team. The team's official stat sheet listed Watson as 5'9", if Sherlock recalled, but Sherlock judged he couldn't be more than 5-foot-7, even in his Nikes. Watson had the athlete's self-assured swagger down, though, moving across the court at a leisurely pace that did nothing to disguise the power and grace coiled in his limbs. Sherlock had that swagger himself, and played it up when he wanted to impress—all players did, really. Sherlock was so accustomed to seeing other guys walk that way that he barely even noticed it, but Watson was different. Sherlock couldn't look away as the point guard crossed the gym, a worn backpack slung over one shoulder, his legs beneath his athletic shorts tanned and dusted with light hair, muscular and perfectly proportioned. _Oh._

Sherlock looked away quickly, feeling his cheeks flush. _What the hell?_ He knew he preferred men to women, though he thought that was mostly due to the fact that the boys in his high school had been more willing to drop to their knees without trying to kiss him and talk to him first. Ever since his voice had stopped changing and he'd learned exactly what perks were available to a star athlete with good hair and sharp cheekbones and fairly loose morals, he hadn't had to worry about whether his schoolboy crushes were returned. He had people lining up to offer themselves to him. The last time he'd felt such a primal _want_ directed at a particular person had been...well, before he'd been at Hartswood, certainly. Back in England, yes: back then he'd been young and inexperienced enough to still be subject to the random whims of attraction, not easily suppressed. He thought he'd outgrown that, but now here was John Watson with his perfect little athlete's body strutting across the basketball court in front of him, waving and nodding at the rest of the team, seemingly perfectly comfortable as the focus of everyone's attention while simultaneously being oblivious to just how beautiful he was. Sherlock folded his hands beneath his chin and tried to keep his breathing slow and even.

Watson reached the group and said hello to Lestrade, exchanged hand slaps and friendly slurs with most of the other players. Sherlock brought his knees together and did his best to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. Watson didn't look at him, thankfully, just dropped his book bag down and splayed himself out on the floor to the right of Lestrade, directly in Sherlock's line of sight. Sherlock inhaled and tried to distract himself by studying the rest of the team while Lestrade kept talking. He knew who most of the other players were, though this was the first time he'd matched up faces with the names and statistics he had studied online.

On the floor next to Watson sat Tayquan Williams, called Tay, junior forward, 6'6", one of the players who had not quit the team after the Hudson scandal. On the other side of Coach Lestrade was Noah Williams, no relation to Tay: 6'8" power forward who had played center in high school; he was a freshman like Sherlock. Next to him was Devon Campbell, who at 6'3" had a couple of inches on Sherlock but was still small enough that he usually played as a guard. Campbell had started most games last year but Sherlock thought he would probably see less playing time this season; from the footage he'd seen, Sherlock knew he was faster and had better shooting percentage than Campbell. 

Jenkins was sitting next to Sherlock and beside him were another half-dozen players spread across the bleachers. Some no doubt would see almost no playing time this year, but all of them looked much more like the stereotypical athletes that Sherlock was used to playing against. They were mostly taller and more muscular than Sherlock and, more importantly, they were unattractive, the lot of them, as far as he was concerned. No issue there. In his experience, being a gay athlete was not a big deal as long as you didn’t start to lust after any of your teammates, which honestly had never been a problem in the three years since he had first picked up a basketball. He leaned back against the row of bleachers behind him and let out a small breath of relief. 

As Lestrade wrapped up his speech Sherlock risked one more glance at Watson and tried to pinpoint what made him so appealing: was it the shaggy blond hair? The tan that stretched at least to his biceps, where they peeked from beneath his faded Barts Bloodhounds t-shirt? Watson must've felt him looking because he turned his head and smiled back at Sherlock and Sherlock felt his stomach twist. _I might be in trouble._ He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, steeling himself against this unexpected complication. He'd just have to stay as far away from Watson as possible. He could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [iriswallpaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper) and MissOJ ([doublenegative](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative)) for agreeing to beta this fic. I hope I don't drive you too crazy with all my questions.
> 
> Iriswallpaper I actually wanted to give you the Sally/Sherlock fic as a gift, but I figure I'm never going to finish that one while this one has some chance of being completed. I hope you like this one instead. Thank you so, so much for all the help you have given me so far. I never would've been able to write _Breakable_ without your help.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock knew they were expected to hang around after Lestrade left; formal practices weren't allowed for another month and a half but no one could object if the whole team happened to get together and play a little pick-up ball. And as much as Sherlock wasn't interested in socializing, he thought he would probably join most of the informal sessions they were sure to have between now and the start of the season. Just not today. He needed some time to himself right now, to regroup and decide how he was going to approach this year. 

When he'd been home for a few weeks this summer, his mother had gone on and on about how university was sure to be different, how it would take time for him to adjust, and of course he hadn't listened to her. Why would he? He'd lived away from home for years already—this wouldn't be any different. But his mother certainly hadn't anticipated John Watson—how could she have? _Yes, Sherlock, you'll go off to university and meet a boy and all of a sudden you won't be able to breathe or look him in the eye. You might even have to rush back to your room to have a wank immediately after meeting him._ No, he was pretty sure that was not what Mum had meant when she'd told him the College of St. Bartholomew's would be the start of a new chapter in his life.

One of the assistant coaches, Dimmock, dragged a cart full of basketballs out from the supply closet before leaving the gymnasium. Most of the team members rushed to grab a ball; with the coaches all gone, Sherlock doubted anyone would notice if he went back to his dorm instead of joining the others. He stood up from his spot on the bleachers and started walking toward the door. 

He only made it halfway down the sideline before someone called his name. He knew without turning who it was, though why Watson wanted to talk to him he had no idea. He could pretend he didn't hear; it would be perfectly plausible if he didn't, what with the thump of a dozen basketballs against the wooden floor mixing with the sound of male voices laughing and shouting. Then he heard Watson shout, "Heads up!"

His body was too conditioned not to move; Sherlock turned and caught the ball as it ricocheted off the floor and toward his chest. Watson was facing him, so Sherlock nodded in his direction. He found he couldn't look at him directly so he spun the ball between his hands, studying the dimpled leather. A brand new ball: it needed to be broken in a bit before it would feel perfect to the touch.

Watson jogged over to him; the other players had all congregated around the hoop at the far end of the gym, horsing around and dunking and jostling one another and failing spectacularly at three-point shots. Sherlock tried to focus on the rest of the team but it didn't work because Watson _smiled_ at him, and good lord why did it feel like he was fourteen again, back at his old school in London, getting his first glimpse of the older boys in the showers?

"You're going to join us for a little shoot-around, aren't you?" Watson's question came with that smile again; Sherlock wondered if other people's lips looked like that and he had just never noticed. 

He inhaled and considered his options. Watson was the team captain; Sherlock could protest that it was against the rules for the captain to request that he stay and play since it was weeks before official practices could start. He could claim that he needed to go back to his room and finish unpacking before that idiot Anderson returned and tried to mess up his organizational schemes again. He could say he'd skipped breakfast, that he'd twisted his ankle, that he'd promised to call his mum before it got too late back at home. He could use any excuse to walk away; he was an excellent liar, and he could tell from a glance that he would be able to get Watson to believe anything he wanted him to. But Watson's eyes were a very complex blue and instead of a much easier lie, Sherlock tucked the ball against his hip and smiled back at him, heart beating fast. "Yeah, I'll stay for a little while," he said. 

He shifted the basketball in his hand and almost missed the double take Watson gave him. _Ah, yes. My voice. Wait, is he—?_ No, almost everyone did a double take the first time they heard Sherlock speak; it didn't indicate any sort of attraction. He himself had had a few years to get used to his voice, although whenever he heard a recording of himself he still had a moment of wonder at how deep it was. He swallowed back the saliva that had filled his mouth at the thought that Watson might like his voice and put the basketball to the floor, starting a casual dribble down the court. 

Watson jogged with him toward the other players and Sherlock tried to bring his mind back to reality. He didn't want to think about what it might mean if Watson was also attracted to him; he was here to play basketball, and that was all he wanted to do. He stopped and let Watson go ahead to join the others. It didn't matter how enticing Watson looked from behind, Sherlock wasn't going to let himself be distracted from the game. Playing basketball gave him a satisfaction nothing else ever had, a clarity even cocaine couldn't compete with, a chance to focus a completely clear mind on nothing but the ball and the court and the strong, precise movements of his own finely-tuned body. 

He crossed the half-court line, took a few more strides and then put up a shot, an easy lob from an arm's length behind the three-point arc. It curved through the air and swooshed neatly through the net. None of the other players seemed to notice, which was a bit disappointing, though Tay Williams grabbed the rebound and then passed the ball back out to him, nodding an acknowledgement as Sherlock joined the group. 

He stayed out on the perimeter, using the three-point line as a border between himself and the rest of the team; it gave him a chance to show off his shooting skills while also letting him evaluate everyone else. They were his teammates but they were also the competition: five starting positions were at stake, and their performance at these casual sessions over the next month and a half would go a long way to determining who was selected. Sherlock was fairly confident he would be one of those chosen. Some coaches didn't like to have freshmen in their starting lineup, but Sherlock didn't think Lestrade could afford to be that fussy. 

There were thirteen players total here today, but only four or five were in serious contention for one of the starting guard positions. Besides Sherlock there was Anderson, Campbell, and Watson, of course. Maybe Orlando Greene, though he hadn't played much last year. The rest were either walk-ons who would never see any significant playing time or bigger players who would be competing for positions as forwards or centers—not Sherlock's concern. 

Like Sherlock, most of the other guards were staying outside of the key, taking shots from a distance rather than getting close to the basket. Anderson wasn't shooting much, just showing off his dribbling skills and some fancy moves which might be entertaining to bystanders but were not likely to be of much use in an actual game. His shooting form was terrible. The other players weren't much better, missing as many shots as they made. Except for John Watson, that was. 

Quite apart from any inconvenient feelings meeting Watson may have stirred up, Sherlock was rather impressed by him. Everyone knew the story of how he'd started out at Barts as a walk-on, not a scholarship player who was recruited by the school but just a student who had to try out for the team. There were a few players like that here today; Sherlock could pick them out by size and demeanor alone. No doubt they'd been decent enough athletes back home in their small high schools, but they weren't good enough to earn a scholarship. They were there to fill out the roster, give the team enough players to practice with, and, at best, play for a minute or two at the end of games that weren't close. Except, of course, Watson had flouted that expectation and by the end of his second season had managed to earn a respectable amount of playing time. Then, after a number of other players quit because of the Hudson murders, Watson had been offered a scholarship and ended up as the team's starting point guard. 

And he'd been good—Sherlock had seen footage of him from two seasons ago, before he'd been injured. Not the flashiest player, not even the most athletic, but a solid, hard-working performer, who every now and then could surprise the other team with a burst of brilliant leadership on the floor. The team had had a rough start that year, with so few experienced players returning, but by the second half of the season they'd managed to start winning a few games and ended with a record of ten wins and twelve losses, fairly respectable given that they had been predicted to finish last amongst the 16 teams in the conference. 

Then last year Watson had been hurt in the team's first game, a hard-fought match against their biggest rival, Appledore College. He'd ended up missing the whole season. Without him, the team had gone 4-18 for the year and finished at the bottom of their division. They hadn't even qualified to play in the conference tournament. Sherlock had already committed to playing for the school at that point and he had a few moments of regret where he considered trying to back out before he decided that joining a team at its lowest point could work to his advantage. He knew he was a good player, but he'd never be professional basketball material. Here at Barts he would have a chance to be the best; he could come along and turn the team's fortunes around singlehandedly. 

Or maybe he wouldn't have to do it singlehandedly. Watson was even better than Sherlock remembered—he was by far the smallest person on the court right now, but he clearly wasn't at all intimidated by the bigger players who were clustered around the basket. He repeatedly drove into the key, dribbling the ball past and through the defenders before they had a chance to react, making textbook jump shots and aggressive layups without any hesitation at all. Sherlock knew height was generally an advantage in this game, but Watson didn't need it. Instead he relied on his broad shoulders and muscular, well-defined legs to propel himself around the defenders and to the basket. _Oh, God, this is going to be a problem._ Sherlock needed to stop thinking about wrapping Watson's firm little body in his arms and drawing him in for a long kiss. He was Sherlock Holmes; he didn't kiss people.

He tried to pull himself back and analyze Watson like he did the other players: as competition. He was a bit hot-headed, driving in for shots that he would never be able to make because of bigger players blocking the way. Though that could also be seen as a positive: he was not afraid to be fouled. Sherlock watched as Watson tried to dribble into the lane where Noah Williams stood; it was a hopeless mismatch. Noah put up his hand and slapped the ball away before Watson could release it for a shot; Watson threw himself into the bigger player, trying to draw a foul. 

It would have worked, had they actually been playing a game. Instead of holding his ground so Watson would be called for charging, Noah kept moving, shuffling his feet and twisting his torso, which meant he was the one at fault when Watson's left shoulder made contact with Noah's chest and both players went down. 

Watson landed mostly on top of Noah. Noah shoved him off but then stuck out a hand so they could help each other up. Once they were both on their feet again Noah patted Watson on the head. Watson swatted his hand away but they were both laughing; it was clear neither was hurt and there were no hard feelings. Except...Watson was favoring his left side, as if he'd re-aggravated his shoulder injury. He didn't appear to be in any pain, judging from his facial expressions, but he held his left arm close to his body and handled the ball mostly with his right hand, although he was left-handed. Sherlock watched him cross the court to the water station that sat by the sidelines. Yes, he set the ball down on the bleachers and then used his right hand to fill a paper cup with water.

Watson noticed him staring before Sherlock even realized he was doing it. "You okay?" he called, which was ridiculous, because Watson was the one moving around as if he were in pain. 

"Yeah." Sherlock decided not to pretend he wasn't looking. He dribbled over to where Watson had taken a seat on the bleachers. "Just needed a little break." He set his ball down on the floor and grabbed one of the small paper cups, filled it, then sat next to Watson. "The article I read online said you'd broken your collarbone, but the way you're moving looks more like you had a torn rotator cuff."

"It was both," Watson said, shrugging the shoulder in question cautiously, as if expecting it to still be painful. "And a broken wrist, but that healed a lot quicker."

"That must've been quite a fall." Sherlock took a sip of his water and watched Watson's reaction over the top of the cup.

"Yeah." Watson's mouth quirked down for a moment before turning back up into a grin. "One of the players from Appledore took me down pretty hard. I don't think he liked me. But I'm okay now." He raised and lowered his shoulders to demonstrate: they both moved with equal ease. So he'd been favoring his left side out of fear that he'd be hurt again, not because of any residual pain. He must nervous about playing again after so long away.

Sherlock finished off the last of his water and looked over at Watson. "You shouldn't worry about having your starting role back again. Look at the competition." He gestured with his cup at the rest of the team.

Watson glanced across the gym and then back at Sherlock. "Those are our teammates. They're good players."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Anderson's got a good shot and decent skills but when he's actually in a game he panics under pressure. The whole reason he started playing ball was to impress girls."

Watson looked over at Anderson and then back at Sherlock. Sherlock had a moment of panic— _did I just insult his friend?_ —and then Watson laughed. "You're rooming with him, aren't you? Has he brought Sally back overnight yet?"

"Not yet. It's only been one night though." So, that answered that. Sherlock's dorm was all male, and the official school policy said that girls weren't allowed overnight, but he'd wondered if people actually followed that rule. Barts was a Catholic school but Sherlock wasn't Catholic and he hadn't been sure how strict life would be here. Personally he did not want any overnight guests of either sex, and he wasn't thrilled to learn Anderson might be inviting his girlfriend to stay.

Watson nodded. "Well, when he does, one of the other guys will let you stay in their room. We all do that for each other."

"Oh." Sherlock tapped the back of his sneaker against the bleacher and tried to sound nonchalant. "Do you have a girlfriend, then?"

"Nah. Not anymore." Watson sighed. "It's better not to be tied down when you're in college, anyway."

"Oh. Right."

"What about you? Got a girlfriend back home?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really my area," he said, and then quickly added, "Relationships, I mean. I've never seen the point, and girls are confusing." _So are boys, apparently._ He'd never wanted to date anyone; why would he, when there'd always been plenty of people around who were willing to satisfy his needs without the useless complication of a relationship? 

Watson chuckled. "Yeah, they are confusing. If you meet a cheerleader named Mary, don't believe anything she says about me, all right?"

Sherlock nodded. _So he wasn't intrigued when he first heard the sound of my voice._ He would've sworn he'd seen a little spark in Watson's eyes then, but no matter. He nudged the basketball on the floor in front of him with his toe, then stopped it from rolling away with his other foot. Watson was done with his water break, it looked like; some long-dormant part of Sherlock's brain insisted that he needed to keep him talking. He looked out at the rest of the team and scrounged for something that could pass as friendly conversation. "Tay Williams needs to lay off the beer. If he does he could lead the league in rebounds this year."

Watson chuckled again. "How did you know he drinks?"

Sherlock shrugged. "College students drink, don't they? And his arms and chest are pretty hard but he's got a beer belly started already, a quite impressive one for someone his age."

"Wow. Can you do me?"

"Sorry, what?"

"What can you tell about me just by looking? Not the shoulder thing, everyone knows that. What else?"

Sherlock frowned and looked at Watson again. No one had ever asked him to deduce them before. What should he say? He flicked his gaze up and down, trying to see beyond the obvious basketball stats and other things that were public knowledge. 

"Come on, do it." Watson bumped his fist against Sherlock's upper arm. Sherlock startled at the contact and blurted, "You're worried about affording medical school—that's one reason you decided to put it off and play again this year."

Watson's eyes widened and Sherlock's stomach sank. He pulled his arms and legs in and tried to melt into the bench. _Idiot._

"How did you know that?" Watson sounded...impressed?

"No, I'm sorry, that was rude of me, I didn't mean—"

"No, tell me! It wasn't rude—it was amazing!"

Sherlock blinked at him. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off." He looked Watson in the eye, still fully expecting him to express some variation on that sentiment.

Watson laughed. He laughed and Sherlock felt his stomach do a little flip that definitely could not be a normal thing for an almost-twenty-year-old man to feel. 

"I am worried about paying for med school, but how did you know?"

Sherlock nodded at Watson's feet. "Those are your team shoes from last season. Most of the other players have different sneakers on right now, ones they bought on their own, but you've been wearing those since you got cleared to play again months ago. You can't afford new ones, or you can but you're trying to save the money for something else. I know you've already been admitted to medical school, and medical school is expensive."

"Yeah, yeah it is." Watson stretched out his legs and then stood up. He turned away from Sherlock and called across the court, "Hey, Jenkins, that is the worst pick I have ever seen anyone set."

Sherlock frowned and tried to figure out exactly what he had done wrong. Watson was touchy about money, that was clear, but he'd also asked Sherlock to explain himself, so what was he supposed to have said?

Watson stretched his bad shoulder and then started to walk away. Sherlock's stomach knotted again; he'd had a chance to at least make a friend, which he hadn't even known he'd wanted, and he'd thrown it away. Of course. He picked up the basketball that lay by his feet, gave it a bounce. "Watson!" he called, to show that it was no big deal, as if people stopped and chatted with him and then walked away every day. Watson turned at his name and Sherlock threw a hard chest pass at him, its force lessened a bit because Sherlock was still sitting down.

Watson caught the ball without hesitation and grinned. "Call me John," he said, walking backwards, toward the other players. "I'm calling you Sherlock because that's a cool name and I like it better than Holmes." He winked at Sherlock— _winked! What does that mean?_ —and turned away, jogging to rejoin the rest of the team. Sherlock heard him yell something about drills and watched as a whole gym full of giants fell into orderly lines at Watson's—John's—direction. After a moment, Sherlock stood up and went to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a [simple diagram of a basketball court](http://www.sportspectator.com/fancentral/basketball/guide04.html) that also shows player positions, if you're not familiar with the game. (Actually that looks like a high school court--college has the 3-point line a little farther out--but you get the idea.)


	3. Chapter 3

"Absolutely not." Coach Lestrade shook his head and then leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk as if dismissing Sherlock from his office. 

Sherlock had expected Lestrade to agree with his request immediately, but instead the coach seemed to be trying to brush him off. Well, Lestrade would learn soon enough that Sherlock was not so easily dissuaded. "I need my own room," he repeated.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's school policy. No first-year students are assigned singles, and that goes double for athletes."

Sherlock inhaled and refrained from asking what the double of "no" was. He couldn't stop himself from pacing back and forth in front of Lestrade's desk, but he knew he had to stay level-headed and calm. Lestrade might not be a genius, but everything Sherlock had seen of him so far indicated that he was of at least average intelligence and generally reasonable and fair-minded. Sherlock just had to make him understand that he could not continue living with Anderson.

Lestrade was still talking. "And even if you were a junior or senior, you'd be able to get a single bedroom, but you would still have to share a suite. My advice is to get used to it. Didn't you share rooms in prep school?"

Sherlock ignored the question as irrelevant and focused on the important bit. "So if Anderson is a junior, why is he living with me? He should be over in one of the suites, shouldn't he?" That was where John and the other upperclassmen on the team lived.

Lestrade shrugged. "He requested your room. I mean, not you specifically, and I'm sure he's regretting that part of it, but he wanted to be assigned a double with one of the incoming freshmen."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

Lestrade shrugged again. "I don't know, Sherlock. I guess he wanted the chance to help one of his new teammates adjust to college life. He didn't know he'd end up with you."

Sherlock stopped pacing and crossed his arms, frowning. That didn't fit with what he had seen of Anderson so far. Other than the occasional lecture about how everything Sherlock did was wrong, Anderson spent most of his time ignoring Sherlock or kicking him out of the room so Sally could come over. Which he hadn't intended to mention but Lestrade's refusal to see reason left him no choice. He caught Lestrade's eye and kept his voice low as he told him, "I've had to spend the last two nights on the floor in Jenkins and Noah's room so Anderson could have Sally Donovan spend the night."

That got Lestrade's attention. He frowned and took his feet off his desk, sat up straight in his office chair. "Have a seat, Sherlock." He gestured at an open chair. Sherlock hooked a foot around the chair leg, pulled it close to the desk and sat, leaning forward towards Lestrade so they could face each other as equals. 

Lestrade folded his hands on his desk and smiled. "Let me explain something to you. No one on the team is supposed to have overnight guests of the opposite sex. That violates school policy. If I found out that a team member was indeed breaking the rules, I would discipline that team member. However, sleeping with your girlfriend, while not condoned by St. Bart's Catholic tradition, is not, in fact, a major violation. Any player discovered to have engaged in such behavior would be verbally reprimanded. Not suspended from the team, not made to sit out any games. I would just tell him not to do it again, and should the female involved prove to be a member of the women's team, she would receive the same disciplinary action. Do you understand what I'm saying here?"

Sherlock nodded. _No one cares, Anderson won't get into trouble and he will make my life even more miserable if he finds out I tried to turn him in._

"Good. I knew you were smart. Those aptitude test scores sure were a lot more accurate than your high school grades, weren't they?" Lestrade put his hands behind his head and tilted his chair back again. "Honestly, Sherlock, you should try talking to Anderson about it, see if the two of you can work it out. I'd rather not get involved. We're not one of those schools that hires strippers for our players, but I'm not going to tell them they can't have sex, either."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't care if he has sex or not, I just shouldn't have to get kicked out of my own room every night." 

"I am sorry about that, Sherlock. If it's any comfort, I doubt it will last too long. Sally Donovan can do better than Anderson, in my opinion."

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. It was _not_ any comfort, and he did not want to be thinking about Sally's or Anderson's relative attractiveness.

"Hey, now, it's not that bad," Lestrade said. "You know, you could always retaliate if you want. Bring a girl back to the room yourself."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then asked, "Are you advising a student-athlete to violate one of the college's rules?"

"Of course not," Lestrade said, meeting his eyes without a blink.

"Good," Sherlock replied, and leaned back in the chair. "Anyway, I tend to prefer encounters that are a good deal quicker than the span of an overnight visit." He watched Lestrade's eyes widen and then stood up, trying not to let his satisfaction show too much.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, don't tell me that sort of thing."

"I haven't told you anything. I don't know what you're talking about." He smiled and then strode out of Lestrade's office, wishing he actually did have someone to retaliate with—anyone, even a girl would be fine. He could time it so Anderson walked in on them while she was down on her knees and then she'd be too embarrassed to want to do anything else. Perfect. Why Anderson would want a _girlfriend_ who would stay overnight was beyond incomprehensible to him. And Lestrade's refusal to do anything about the situation was infuriating. Sherlock wasn't used to a coach who told him no so easily. He hoped Lestrade didn't plan to continue that practice on the basketball court. 

He paused when he reached the end of the hall, considering his options. _I need a cigarette._ The thought caught him by surprise; he rarely felt the urge to smoke anymore. Anyway, the entire campus was tobacco-free; he'd have to find a ride into town if he wanted cigarettes. Although, on second thought, there must be someone who sold them from their dorm room. He blinked his eyes shut and reminded himself what a bad idea it would be to pursue that thought. He didn't need a lecture from Anderson to know how much smoking affected his fitness level. And he definitely didn't need to investigate what else he might be able to procure from some of the more enterprising students on campus. 

There were better ways to improve his mood, he knew. A half-hour alone on the court would take the sting out of the conversation with Lestrade. He reversed directions and headed toward the gymnasium. A glance inside showed him that Jenkins and Brez were shooting baskets with a couple of players from the women's team—not Sally, thank God. He could stick to the other half of the gym and even if they insisted he join them, their presence would not be unacceptable. 

Jenkins called his name as he crossed the court; Sherlock absently raised a hand to return the greeting as he continued toward the locker room. He'd claimed a locker here to store his best pair of playing shoes so he wouldn't get them muddy walking across campus. He pushed open the door and entered, met by the familiar odor of years-old sweat and industrial-strength cleaning chemicals. His locker was in the last row; he turned toward it and then stopped, arrested by the sight in front of him: John Watson, shirtless, seated on the padded treatment table while an athletic trainer worked at the muscles in his shoulder. 

Sherlock swallowed and tried to look at John without staring too obviously. "Sorry. I didn't realize you were in here."

John grinned past the trainer at him. "It's all right. Shoulder just felt a little tight after weight training today."

"That's because you're using too much weight," the trainer said.

"I know, I know. Less weight, more reps." John sighed. "Sherlock, have you met Mike yet? Mike Stamford. Last year he was just a lowly student intern but now he's an actual certified athletic trainer."

Mike whacked John on the arm—the right arm, Sherlock noted approvingly, not the side that had been injured. "Not everyone can go to medical school," Mike said.

Sherlock had to walk past them to get to his locker. He knew he shouldn't stare, but then Mike put his hands on John again and Sherlock couldn't help himself. John's chest was pale and firm, marred by a small surgical scar high on the left side. Sherlock was transfixed; he watched Mike's fingers move, saw John grimace and stretch, had to look away and focus on Mike rather than John. Mike was short, probably even shorter than John, a bit pudgy, wore glasses: normal-looking, as unattractive as most people, nothing like John at all. Sherlock took one more look at John's bare, perfect chest and turned away to fumble at the combination to his locker. It took two tries to open it; he only succeeded because his hands seemed to remember the number sequence even while his brain was otherwise distracted.

He sat on the bench in front of his locker and tried to concentrate on changing his shoes. He'd thought he had his reactions to John under control; he'd seen him almost every day over the past two weeks, and had even managed to survive a couple of sessions in the weight room together without embarrassing himself. But the bare chest was too much; how could anyone expect him to ignore such a sight? 

The locker room door banged open and Jenkins strode in; Sherlock glanced at him, then took a moment to study him as well. From what Sherlock had observed so far around campus, Jenkins had more fans lusting after him than anyone else on the team. He was taller than Sherlock but not abnormally so, muscular but well-proportioned, and coated in sweat from playing. While Sherlock could understand the appeal he might hold for others, Jenkins was not at all tempting to him. Good, he was still finding most people unattractive. It was just John who was the problem.

Jenkins headed over toward the showers and then Brez came into the locker room as well; the two of them together were loud and distracting enough that Sherlock was able to keep his attention off of John for a few minutes. By the time he looked back in his direction, John was pulling his shirt on again and Mike turned to address Sherlock. "You need me for anything? Got any nagging injuries I don't know about?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Sorry."

"Ah, well, you're young," Mike said. "John says he expects you'll get a lot of playing time right away. We'll see how your body's holding up three years from now." 

"Mike!" John jabbed the trainer with his elbow. "Don't let the freshman know I think he's good."

Sherlock tried to hide his smile. God, how pitiful was he, that even a little compliment like that from John made him warm inside? He knew he was good; people had been telling him that for years. He didn't need to hear John say it to make it true.

"All right, kids," Mike said. He slipped the tube of Biofreeze he'd been using on John into his trainer's kit. "There's a late soccer game tonight so I need to go grab dinner now. Sherlock, nice to meet you. Don't hesitate to let me know if you do need anything."

John slid off the table, stretching both arms across the front of his chest. "Mike's good, if you do need any work done."

"I'll keep it in mind." Sherlock watched Mike leave, then realized John was getting ready to go, too. Suddenly the idea of shooting baskets alone didn't seem as appealing.

He stood up from the bench. "I'll walk back with you, if you want."

John gave him a puzzled smile. "Weren't you going to get some court time in?"

Sherlock looked down at the sneakers he'd just finished lacing up. "Um, yeah, I was, but then Brez and Jenkins left, so I thought I'd skip it for today."

"Okay," John said. He bent down to retrieve his bag from his locker and Sherlock let his gaze linger for as long as he dared before sitting down again to change back into his old shoes. 

He didn't want John to think he wasn't dedicated to practice, so he elaborated an excuse. "If I go back to the dorm now I should have a couple hours before Anderson gets back."

"Oh." John straightened up, hefting his backpack over his right shoulder. "So the roommate situation isn't ideal, I take it?"

Sherlock shook his head and fell into step behind John, following him out of the locker room. "You were right about him having Sally over. Only twice so far, but I think he's planning on at least every weekend."

John grimaced. "Sorry. Where have you been staying?"

"Jenkins and Noah let me crash with them."

"On the floor?"

"Yeah."

"Well, if you want to drag your pillow and a toothbrush across the Quad, you can stay with me and Tay and Campbell when you need to. We've got the common area in our suite, so at least you'd have a couch to crash on instead of sleeping on the floor."

Sherlock was glad he was still a step behind John, so John couldn't see his reaction. He cleared his throat. "Thanks. Maybe I will." He ignored the voice that was screaming protest in his head. _Bad idea!_

"Good." They reached the door to exit the building and John paused so Sherlock was forced to catch up with him. Outside, they walked next to each other in silence for a little while as they crossed the lawn that stretched along the length of campus. It was a warm early autumn day and there were numerous small groups of students scattered across the grass, some studying, a few tossing Frisbees or footballs, most just chatting and lounging in the sun. John looked out across the field, smiling, then turned his face up to Sherlock. "I've been meaning to ask you, what the hell is up with your hair?"

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock raised a hand to his head. He knew the style was unusual but he'd been told it wasn't a bad look for him. 

"Just most players have a cut that's a little more practical. Doesn't it get into your eyes?"

Sherlock gave his head a single shake, an automatic gesture that tossed his hair back off his forehead. "Guess I'm just used to it." He could feel himself starting to blush, and hoped John would be too focused on his hair to notice his face. 

"Hmm." John was still staring at Sherlock's head as they walked. "I mean, I've seen guys with longer hair in a ponytail. That seems a little more sensible, you know?"

"I guess." Sherlock swallowed and couldn't stop himself from swiping his hand through the slightly tangled curls again, trying to tame them back so John didn't think they looked ridiculous. He wished he'd thought to bring a hat. Some of the other students on campus wore baseball caps all the time; maybe he should start.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," John continued, and Sherlock thought about making some excuse to go elsewhere on campus so he wouldn't have to hear any more of this. "It looks good on you. I just think it must be a pain in the ass to maintain."

Sherlock's steps stuttered. _He said he likes my hair._ No, he didn't say that, not really. _He just realized he was insulting me and is trying to be nice about it now._ Sherlock took a breath and tried to continue the conversation in a normal manner. "It's not really that much work." 

"Hmm." John squinted one eye at him, then shifted his backpack on his shoulder and reached up toward Sherlock's face. Before Sherlock could pull away John's fingers were on his head: a quick slide through the hair above his ear followed by a brief tug of a stray lock. They both stopped walking and Sherlock stared down at him in shock. John blinked at him and then shook his head. "Sorry, just wondered what it felt like. Didn't mean to get weird about it."

He started walking again, a little faster than before and Sherlock took a couple quick steps to catch up. He cleared his throat. "No, ah, it's okay. I, um, I just like having a different look from everybody else, I guess, so that's why I don't cut it short."

John chuckled. "I don't think you really need to worry about that. You're a pretty distinctive-looking person." 

"What?" This whole conversation was so confusing that by this point he had no idea what John was talking about. Was he being insulted?

John didn't stop walking but glanced sideways at Sherlock, looked him up and down. Sherlock made himself keep up the same pace, as if having his appearance examined by John in the middle of campus were completely normal. _He's looking at me. Stop it, of course he's looking, so what?_

John cleared his throat and looked straight ahead again. "Well, for one thing you are possibly the palest person I have ever met. Definitely the palest basketball player. Didn't you go outside all summer, play on an outdoor court?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I spent the summer at home in London."

"Not a lot of playground courts in London, are there?"

"No. Football fields, yes."

John gestured at a nearby group of students who were throwing an American football back and forth. "You mean soccer, don't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head and John laughed. "I'd love to visit London someday," he said. "It's always seemed more exciting than any American city I've been to."

"It is."

"Then why are you here for college? How'd you end up in America anyway? Where was it—Ohio? Your prep school?"

Sherlock nodded. "Hartswood Preparatory Academy. Middle of nowhere, Ohio. My mum went to school with the dean, so I ended up there." Now it was his turn to stare out across the campus, trying to figure out how to change the topic away from his past.

"That's weird, isn't it? Aren't there good schools in London? Why'd you want to leave?"

Apparently John wanted to have a whole conversation on the topic. Sherlock wasn't used to anyone being this interested in him; it was simultaneously gratifying and a bit terrifying. Maybe he should lie. He didn't want to lie. "I would've stayed if I could have. I, er, wasn't exactly welcome at any of the better schools after my first year."

He chanced a sideways glance to gauge John's response; John quirked an eyebrow and took a half-jogging step to catch up to Sherlock. He hadn't realized he'd sped up, as if he could possibly get ahead of this conversation. He turned his gaze forward again. He knew John would probably find out eventually; he certainly hadn't been able to keep it a secret at Hartswood. _Might as well get it over with now._ He took a deep breath and said, "When I was 15 I spent most of the year in and out of rehab. Then when I went back to school I still got sent down again within a month, even though I was _clean_." God, he hadn't realized how much that still rankled.

"Sent down?" 

Sherlock sighed. "Expelled. Kicked out. Mum and Dad decided it would be better for me to make a fresh start someplace else—somewhere I didn't have a _reputation_ —and Mum was friends with the dean at Hartswood, so here I am."

John was quiet for a little while and Sherlock resigned himself to having just lost John's respect. He hoped he would at least keep quiet about it; he didn't need his history getting back to Lestrade or the rest of the team.

They'd almost reached the Quad, with its four-cornered clusters of dorms, when John asked, "Was it rehab for drinking?" 

"No." Sherlock didn't elaborate, didn't try to explain the allure that cocaine and heroin still held for him, and John didn't ask.

"Okay," John said. "I think my sister needs to go to rehab for drinking, but she won't admit it. Neither will my mom, but it's gotten a lot worse since my dad died. Maybe they don't see it because they're just used to it, but when I'm home it's really obvious to me."

Sherlock had the vague idea that he should respond with something supportive about John's sister, but this conversation was veering too close to things he preferred not to think about anymore. John didn't pursue the topic; they kept walking toward the dorms and Sherlock wondered if this was how most people started friendships. John hadn't recoiled when he'd said he'd been to rehab, hadn't suddenly remembered he needed to be someplace else and fled—he'd just shared something from his own life and now they were still walking together across campus. 

When they reached Sherlock's dorm John paused. He turned to face Sherlock, rocking back and forth once from his heels to his toes. "I have to go study. The stats class I'm taking is a lot harder than I expected. See you at dinner later?"

"Sure," Sherlock replied. That was kind of a ridiculous question; the whole team ate together in the dining hall every night, although sometimes John wasn't there because some of his graduate classes were in the evenings.

"Good," John replied. "You going to Mass afterwards?"

"Um, no."

"Oh, right, you're not Catholic, are you? Sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. About half the team was Catholic, which was a little lower than the rate for the rest of the campus, he thought. He hadn't known for sure that John was part of the group that went to one of the evening Masses every Sunday night, but it wasn't too surprising. "It's okay. I'll see you at dinner." He gave John a small smile and then thought he probably looked like an idiot doing so. He raised one hand for some reason—aborted fist bump? a wave?—and then turned on his heel and strode away from John, a bit flabbergasted at how he had just managed to take part in a conversation that started with a discussion of his hairstyle, flirted briefly with his history of drug abuse and then ended up with an invitation to go to dinner and church.


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks later and Sherlock was stuck in the library arguing with a tutor named Molly who looked like she was a fifteen-year-old dressed as a fifty-year-old but was apparently a junior majoring in biology. She seemed to think the two additional years of schooling she had meant she could boss him around.

"You cannot write your essay for freshman comp class on your phone, Sherlock." 

"Well, I just did, didn't I?" Sherlock widened his eyes and gave her a thin-lipped smile, then tapped at the screen to send the document to the library's printer. "I'll just go grab it and you can _proofread_ it for me." Honestly, the fact that his professor wanted a printed copy was almost as ridiculous as the team's requirement that all players attend these study halls/tutoring sessions twice a week.

Sherlock detoured to the library's café before eventually returning with his paper and a large cup of coffee. John and Tay were sitting at the table with Molly; Anderson, Campbell and Jenkins were at an adjacent table. Sherlock took a seat between John and Tay, which had the added of advantage of putting his back to Anderson.

"Shouldn't you just drink tea?" Tay gestured at Sherlock's drink.

"Piss off, we have coffee in England." Tay laughed and Sherlock took a long sip of coffee before sliding his paper across the table toward Molly.

She picked it up and drew her finger down the page as she read, seemingly much more serious about the task than he expected most students who'd managed to snag such a cushy work-study job would be. He rocked his chair back on two legs and watched her for a few moments before he got bored. His paper was fine; he didn't need anyone to look it over for him.

"This is stupid." He dropped the chair down onto all four legs again. "I'm passing all my classes without even needing to go to any of them. There is no reason I need to be here twice a week."

Molly finished reading and slipped the essay back across the table. "It's fine for freshman comp," she said. "A bit dry, but grammatically correct." She went back to helping Tay with his science lab report.

Sherlock chuckled at her inaccurate description—his writing was not _dry_ —and leaned back in his chair again to drink his coffee. It was stupid that he had to be here but at least Molly was more entertaining than the tutor who was here on Thursday evenings. 

John pulled Sherlock's paper toward him so he could read it. He moved his lips just the tiniest bit as he read. It was adorable; Sherlock had to look away until John finished and gave the essay back. "Yeah, this is pretty well-written," John told him. "But this tutoring is really just a precaution. Lestrade doesn't want anyone falling behind during the semester and then finding out once the season's underway that they're failing all their classes and in danger of being suspended from the team."

Sherlock sighed and tipped his head to the side, giving John a bored look over his coffee cup. "I'm not going to fail any of my classes. I promise."

"Well," John said, pulling his own textbook close. "If I'm remembering right, it's not like anyone could tell you'd do well in class based on your high school career." 

Sherlock sat up straight in outrage. "My SAT scores were higher than any else in my school!"

"Yeah, but your grades weren't exactly stellar, were they? I remember Lestrade and Dimmock discussing whether you'd be able to handle it here."

"What?" Sherlock set his coffee cup down on the table. "That's ridiculous! My grades were impressive enough to be admitted here." 

"Were they?" John raised an eyebrow. "Even if you weren't an athlete?"

"I—" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Do you think I'm stupid? I'm smarter than anyone else here, that's for sure. I could do that statistics homework you're struggling with."

"You cannot."

"Watch." Sherlock grabbed John's notebook and textbook, read through the problem he was working on. John had the basic concept down, but— "You got the math wrong, that's all." He pointed to the lines of numbers that John had transposed. 

"I did not—give me that." John pulled the notebook back and erased what he'd written earlier, scribbled some new figures in his horribly cramped handwriting. "Huh. You're right." He turned his head and gave Sherlock an appreciative smile.

Sherlock returned the grin and leaned back in his chair again. "I told you. I could do any of your homework." He gestured around at the other players seated at the two tables. "There's no reason I should have to be here." 

He heard a scuffling noise from the table behind him and then Jenkins plopped down in an empty seat next to Sherlock. "Do my homework. I don't know any of this shit."

Sherlock glanced at Jenkin's textbook. "That's history," he said.

"Yeah, help me with it."

"American history. I don't know anything about that."

"You just said you could do any of our work for us."

"Well, yes, but not that. Why would I know American history?"

"Didn't you go to high school in America?" 

"Well, yes, but—" He frowned at Jenkins. "So did you."

"Yeah, but I'm not the one bragging about how smart I am."

"I'm not bragging. I'm just stating a fact." 

Jenkins rolled his eyes and pulled the book back toward himself. "Whatever, man."

John laughed. "So are you taking history this semester, Sherlock? Maybe you should spend some time studying that."

Sherlock grimaced. "Foundations of Western History. So, so boring, you can't even imagine." He'd only been to one class, but that had been more than enough. It met three times a week at nine in the morning and the professor didn't take attendance. At least there were no papers to write, just a mid-term and a final exam. He planned to read the textbook the night before each test; he knew could retain the knowledge long enough to pass, then delete the information so it didn't clutter up his mind.

John laughed again. "Sounds like maybe you need it, though. What else are you taking? Intro Comp, what else?"

Sherlock sighed. "The usual, I guess. Um, the philosophy one, Ethics and Values." He scoffed at the course title. "A math course. It's easy." He opened his bag and rooted around until he found his schedule. "Everything's easy, why bother going to class?"

John pulled the schedule out of his hand. "Sherlock, some of these are practically remedial courses. Intro to Math for the Liberal Arts? You just did graduate-level statistics. Why are you taking such basic courses?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't pick them."

"What do you mean you didn't pick them? You must've registered for them."

Sherlock shook his head. "Coach Lestrade did, I presume." He looked at the small pile of fat textbooks John had stacked on the table. _Epidemiology._ Now that sounded interesting. 

"He registered you?" 

Sherlock shrugged again. "I remember getting a few texts from him saying I needed to register, but I never got around to it and then I got my schedule with all these classes on it, so I assume he did it for me."

John looked down at the list of classes again. "Okay, well I can tell why you're so bored. It's too late to change all your classes for this semester, but next semester you can pick better ones that you're actually interested in. Maybe something a little more challenging. And you need to sign up for them yourself. I don't think Coach will get in trouble for it this time, but you have to be careful. There are so many rules about things the coaches and staff aren't supposed to do for athletes."

Sherlock waved his hand. "Most of them are about monetary gain. I hardly need anyone else's money."

"No, I suppose you don't." John folded up Sherlock's schedule and handed it back to him and Sherlock realized his misstep. He tried to think of a way to backtrack so he didn't sound like a spoiled rich kid but before he could, Anderson pushed his chair away from the table behind them, hitting Sherlock in the back.

"Watch it," Sherlock growled, turning to look at him. 

Anderson's face twisted in something that might've been an apology or might've been a sneer before he looked away from Sherlock and announced to the room in general that he was done studying for the evening. 

_Great, there goes my chance to get back to the room before he does and have a little time to myself._ Sherlock sighed. He would've skipped this _mandatory_ session just like he'd been skipping most of his classes, but he hadn't seen John much over the last couple of days and he knew he would be here. He couldn't wait for the season to officially start: three hours of practice six days a week, everyone required to be there. He wasn’t sure how John was going to manage it with his graduate class schedule, but Sherlock was certainly looking forward to both more basketball and more time around John.

"Um, Sherlock." Anderson didn't look at him as he shoved papers into his backpack and Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging him. "I'm going to need the room again tonight."

"What?" Sherlock turned around in his chair to glare at him; it wasn't as satisfying as it could have been since Anderson wasn't looking at him. "It's a Tuesday night. Don't you both have classes in the morning?" Anderson did seem pretty diligent about attending class, though Sherlock assumed he needed to be in order to avoid flunking out; he certainly didn't seem capable of learning anything on his own.

"Keep your voice down!" Anderson hissed, turning around to face him. "It's our 18-month anniversary, and Sally wants to celebrate."

"Eighteen-month—what? That's not a thing!"

"I don't care if it's a thing or not, it's getting me some tonight, so you need to sleep someplace else." Anderson put his back to Sherlock again, as if he considered the conversation over. 

Sherlock folded his hands in front of him on the table and took a deep breath. He knew he was expected to go along with Anderson's requests for the sake of team camaraderie, but he had had enough. He glanced around at their other teammates who were here: John, Tay, Jenkins, Campbell. He wasn't sure which of them would side with him, but he was done giving in to Anderson. He raised his head and turned and caught Anderson's smug smile as he dropped the last of his books into his bag. "No," Sherlock said.

"What?" Anderson's jaw dropped. "Are you talking to me?"

"Of course I'm talking to you." Sherlock stood up, pushing the wooden chair back from the table with his thighs. "And I'm saying no. It's a Tuesday night, I have class tomorrow morning, and I'm not spending the night on the floor so you can fuck your girlfriend again."

Anderson put both hands on his hips. "Don't give me that, you haven't been to a class in weeks. You just don't like Sally."

"I have no opinion on Sally. And I am going to class tomorrow, so I can turn in this paper. But that's not the point."

"Oh, so what's the point then?" Anderson cocked his head.

"The point is, I'm not leaving the room every time you tell me to. It's my room as much as it is yours. Go fuck in Sally's room, why don't you?" 

"Listen here." Anderson pushed his chair out of the way so he stood directly in front of Sherlock. "You're a freshman, I'm a junior. You do what I say. That's how it works. I spent plenty of nights on the floor when I was a freshman, now it's your turn."

Sherlock stepped closer to him so he could look down his nose and emphasize the couple of inches in height he had on Anderson. "Nope," he said, making the word as crisply English as he could. "That is not how it works with me."

"Oh, you think you're special, do you?" Anderson jutted his chin out toward Sherlock. "You're just jealous, I bet. I don't see any girls beating down the door for you. You wish you had a girl as hot as Sally."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. I can see how she looks like quite a catch to you—she is way out of _your_ league, after all—but I could do better than Sally without even trying. She—" 

Anderson launched himself at Sherlock, not a punch but a two-handed push to the chest. Sherlock stumbled backward one step before catching and steadying himself against the table. He shook his hair out of his eyes and lifted his head to meet Anderson's angry glare with a smile. "Oh, really? Is that what you want?" He changed his stance, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. Anderson might have a few pounds on him but he had no doubt he could take him in a fight, probably without breaking a sweat. If he was lucky he'd be able to prove himself before anyone on the library staff even realized they were fighting. 

He didn't get the chance. He sidestepped as Anderson tried to surge forward for a swing at him, but before Sherlock could return the favor John and Campbell had grabbed Anderson by the arms and hauled him back, and Sherlock found himself being gently but firmly restrained by Tay, who was not someone Sherlock was willing to fight, even if he hadn't outweighed Sherlock by at least fifty pounds. He did try to pull away, but Tay just tightened his grip on Sherlock's arms. "Yo, Holmes, cool it down," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm.

Sherlock swung his head around, checking everyone's reactions to see if they were siding with him or Anderson. No one appeared to be taking a side, except maybe for Molly; the look on her face and the way she held her hands in front of her clearly said she had been worried that Sherlock would get hurt. He shook his head in frustration. "He attacked me. You all saw it!" 

"Yeah, after you talked shit about his girl. Drop it, all right?" Tay let go of him but positioned himself so he was standing in between Sherlock and Anderson. 

Sherlock raised his chin to meet Tay's eyes, then changed his mind and stepped back, aware that trying to stare down someone so much bigger was likely just making him look ridiculous. "I'm not sleeping on the floor again." 

"Hey, Sherlock." John let go of Anderson, who pulled away grumbling but turned around to pick up his book bag instead of pursuing the fight. "I told you that you could stay with us, all right?"

"That's not—" Sherlock cut himself off mid-sentence. He didn't want to give Anderson the victory, but neither did he want to pass up the chance to stay over in John's suite. Even with Campbell and Tay there, even knowing he would be sleeping on a sofa rather than in the same room with John, it was still a very enticing idea. Every tiny interaction between the two of them gave Sherlock more data for the increasingly complex catalog of John Watson he was compiling in his head. He frowned and tried to pretend he wasn't eager. "Fine." He watched Anderson stalk out of the study area and then started to gather up his own papers. "I'll be over in a little while."

"No way." Tay crossed his arms and looked down at Sherlock. "You're not going back to your room. Give Anderson a chance to cool off. If you two kill each other we'll lose half our backcourt." 

John nodded and stepped toward them. "Yeah, you can sleep in your clothes and skip brushing your teeth for one night. You're in college—live a little." He smiled at Sherlock and then turned away and Sherlock swallowed and finished zipping up his backpack.

The suites were on the opposite side of the Quad from Sherlock's dorm; as they passed by, Sherlock was tempted to run in and grab his shower bucket and a clean pair of shorts. He probably would have except he knew Tay and the others would stop him. Instead he just followed them across the grass and into their building, then up two flights of stairs and down the hall to their suite.

It was neater than Sherlock expected. There was a kitchen with a small stovetop that looked like it had never been used. Three boxes of cereal and a stack of energy bars were piled on the counter and a couple of dirty bowls and glasses sat in the sink, but otherwise the room was clean. Sherlock was a little surprised—college students weren't known for their housekeeping skills—but since they all were still on the meal plan they ate lunches and dinners in the dining hall, so the kitchen probably didn't get much use. He was tempted to look in the fridge just to see what they had; he and Anderson shared a small refrigerator in their room, but Anderson just had yogurt in it and Sherlock had started the year with some orange juice but ended up dumping it after it turned bad. John and the others had a full fridge-freezer; he couldn't resist. "Do you have ice cream?"

John laughed. "Yeah, help yourself."

"Hey, don't give away our ice cream!" Tay shoved at John and John shoved him right back. 

"Let him eat it," Campbell shouted from down the hall; he'd already retreated into his bedroom. 

"Just because you're lactose-intolerant," Tay grumbled, and then opened the freezer. "Not the Ben & Jerry's, that's mine." He pulled out a squashed carton of store-brand Neapolitan. "Here, have some of John's."

"It's all right with me," John said. "Though I'm not sure that's what Coach meant when he said you need to eat more to put some weight on." He pulled open a drawer and started rummaging around it. "You can finish it up if you want. There's not much left."

"Yeah, John was just eating it when he was moping around about Mary, but he's over her now and back on his healthy diet, right?"

"Shut up!" John kicked Tay in the foot and then reached across the counter to hand Sherlock a spoon and the carton. "I was never moping, and anyway we broke up last spring."

"Yeah, but when you saw her at the beginning of the semester you were definitely moping."

"Fuck you," John said. "Least I had a girlfriend."

"Don't need a girlfriend," Tay said. "I got all the girls I want. The ladies are lining up for the chance to spend time with me." He pointed both thumbs at his chest. 

John laughed and said something about Tay being confused, but Sherlock tuned them out and sat down on the sofa with the carton of ice cream. He didn't really want to hear about John and his ex-girlfriend and anyway it had been three hours since dinner. If he had been back in his own room he probably would've just eaten a chocolate bar and maybe some dry cereal before he went to bed. 

Campbell came back out from his room and turned on a baseball game, which Sherlock was forced to watch since the television was in his makeshift bedroom. John and Tay both joined them. John sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock; even with the space of an empty cushion between them, it made the game much more tolerable. Everyone seemed to be a fan of the Yankees; Sherlock himself had no interest in the outcome, but with John was sitting less than two feet away from him, yelling at the screen as intently as the others were, Sherlock suddenly found himself a baseball enthusiast as well, even if the game was almost as boring as cricket. He kicked his shoes off and put his feet up on the sofa, careful not to cross the cushion into John's space.

The game was already half-over when they turned it on, but after a couple more scoreless innings Sherlock started to drowse. A little while later he startled when John flicked at his feet, opening his eyes to find that the Yankees had won in ten innings and he had let his legs drift over the middle cushion. John didn't seem to mind, though; he just smiled and said, "You want to see if one of us has a clean tee that will fit you, or are you good to sleep like that?"

"No, I'm all right, I think." Sherlock sat up and tried to sniff at his armpit without being too obvious about it. At least he'd changed after he'd worked out this afternoon. "Anderson's got class in the morning so I'll go back and shower while he's gone."

"All right. Let me find you a blanket or something."

John disappeared down the hall, re-emerging a minute later with a folded sheet and a small throw pillow with "Barts Bloodhounds" emblazoned across it. "Couldn't find a blanket but I have an extra clean sheet and Tay has this pillow, for some reason."

Sherlock accepted the pillow and the sheet and tried to make himself comfortable. The sofa didn't make a bad bed, though if he'd been less flexible or as tall as Tay or Campbell it would've been cramped. He wrapped the sheet around himself and tried to convince his brain that he could not in fact smell John; the sheet was clean and smelled only of fabric softener. 

Once he was settled on the sofa he didn't see John or anyone else again. That was probably for the best; he didn't need to get a glimpse of a freshly-showered and damp John, that was for sure. He wanted to get a glimpse, but he didn't need to. He already knew what John looked like shirtless; he'd been treasuring that image since the day he'd walked in on him in the locker room. _Oh, God, don't think about that now. Not here, not when John's just down the hall._ Tomorrow morning, maybe, when he was sure Anderson had left for class, Sherlock could go back to the room and— _stop it. Not here._

He rolled onto his side so it would be less tempting to reach down and grab himself. He needed something else to think about, a distraction so he could actually get some sleep instead of lying here all night fantasizing about getting up and walking down the hall to discover whether John slept in his underwear or not. Basketball. That always worked. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind of everything else, picturing the court in as much detail as he could. He fell asleep imagining himself on the floor, listening to the roar of the crowd as he stepped up to the foul line and sank shot after perfect shot.

While he didn't manage to actually make it to class the next morning, he did drop off his essay at his English professor's office before heading back to his room. Anderson was gone, thankfully; Sherlock dropped his backpack onto his desk and then froze. Anderson's bed was a mess of twisted sheets, as usual, while Sherlock's was neatly made up, just as he had left it yesterday afternoon, except.... The striped pillowcase always went on top. The solid blue one matched his sheets and needed to be on the bottom, and he'd slept on the striped one more and liked the sheen it had gained over time. So why was the pillow with the solid cover now on top? 

He stepped around his desk and sat down carefully on the edge of his mattress. Someone had rearranged his pillows. Someone had been on his bed. He leaned over and sniffed the pillowcase but didn't smell anything unusual, though maybe he should think about changing the sheets soon. He sat up again and inhaled deeply; the whole room smelled like dirty socks and sex, and he couldn't even completely blame Anderson for that. They both sweated plenty, between pick-up games in the gym and conditioning in the weight room, and laundry wasn't exactly a priority. As for the sex smell, well, maybe there was a feminine component to it, but Sherlock suspected that he himself had contributed as much to the accumulated odor as had Anderson and Sally. Since he was still new on campus he didn't have any adoring, accommodating fans yet, and he'd had to take it upon himself to relieve his own urges. And he'd had a lot of urges these last few weeks. That was actually why he'd come back to the dorm now instead of going for a snack at the student center or stopping by the gym.

He swung his legs up onto the bed and rearranged the pillows into their proper position. He glanced at the one with the blue pillowcase, his right hand already going to his waistband to push down his shorts, and saw a long, dark hair stretched across the pillowcase. Thicker and much longer than his own hair; he actually put a hand to his head as if to check. Sally Donovan's hair was on his pillow. _What—?_

He pulled his hand out of his pants and stood up. _Did they have sex in my bed?_ The idea was almost too repulsive to contemplate. _Why would they—?_ No, it didn't make any sense. Anderson hadn't been happy with him yesterday, but he'd had no incentive to try to provoke Sherlock like this because he had ended up getting his own way. Sherlock hadn't returned to the dorm and Anderson had been able to sleep with Sally. 

But—no. Anderson wasn't _sleeping_ with Sally. He was just having sex with her. Sherlock glanced over at Anderson's unmade bed, then back at his own. They had extra-long mattresses, but they were still single beds. _Of course._ That was why Anderson had wanted to room in a double, with an incoming freshman, one who would willingly leave for the night when told. That way he and Sally could have sex in his bed, and then she could spend the night asleep in his roommate's bed. Anderson wouldn't have to worry about trying to sneak her out after visiting hours were over nor would they have to spend a night cramped together in a tiny twin bed. 

Sherlock felt his lips twist as he picked the piece of hair off his pillow and dropped it on the floor. He had no particular opinion of Sally—they'd barely met as Anderson rushed him out of the room every time she came over—but the idea of her fucking Anderson and then crawling into Sherlock's bed to sleep made his skin crawl. Although, now that he thought of it, maybe it had been her idea to sleep in Sherlock's bed, so she didn't have to spend the night pressed up against Anderson. Though why she would want to be with him in the first place was a mystery.

In any event, it had certainly been Sally who'd remade his bed so neatly, although she was mistaken if she thought she could be meticulous enough to hide anything from Sherlock. He dropped down onto his bed again and lay back against his pillows, relieved that there was no evidence she had done anything other than sleep on his mattress.

Although it did give him an idea. He'd given up on getting any help with a room change from Lestrade, and apparently the rest of the team found it normal enough for one player to kick another one out for the night. At this point he was resigned to the idea of having to leave when Anderson asked him to, and now even to the idea of Sally sleeping in his bed, but he didn't need to make it pleasant for them.

Sherlock touched himself through his shorts and then glanced over at Anderson's bed. It would be the perfect retribution, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He'd have to settle for making his own bed as unappealing to Sally as possible. 

He undressed quickly and then crawled under his sheets. It only took a moment to replace the visual of Sally sleeping here with some of the numerous images of John he'd collected in the weeks since they first met.

He closed his eyes and let all of his body relax for a moment, then took hold of himself and started a steady rhythm. John the day they met, strutting across the gym the first time Sherlock had ever seen him. John with a ball in his hands, driving toward the hoop, quick and strong and determined. John in the weight room, spotting the bench press for players twice his size. John sitting shirtless in the locker room, grimacing a little while the trainer stretched and kneaded his bad shoulder. That shouldn't even have been sexy, Sherlock thought, but it was. Almost as good as John reaching up and touching his hair, grazing his ear with his fingertips as he dropped his hand away. Sherlock still held the sense memory of that touch, even though it had happened weeks ago. And then last night, John sitting on the sofa next to him, feet tucked under his thighs, or later, asleep down the hall. Maybe John had done this very thing himself last night, while Sherlock had forced himself to abstain. _Oh, God._

He let out a quiet moan and lifted his hips into the air, the sheet billowing against his bare flesh adding to his almost unbearable level of arousal. This was the point where he would usually reach for the box of tissues, but not this time. He opened his mouth and let more sound come out, brought his left hand down to brush against his balls, and stroked his right as fast and as hard as he could stand. That was it, that was— _John, grinning, laughing, talking, touching. John._ He felt a moment of regret as he pushed himself over the edge— _not yet!_ ¬¬—and then he was emptying himself over his own stomach, breathless and clenching and still thinking of John. 

_Yes. Perfect._ He rolled onto his side, not minding the sensation of sticky warmth as it dripped and spread onto his sheets. This was his bed; he would do what he wanted in it. And he wasn't about to start changing the sheets regularly, but if Anderson wanted Sally to sleep here more often, then Sherlock didn't care. He would gladly stay over in the suites whenever he could, as long as he could come back here and think about John the next morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock settled into both a routine and an uneasy truce with Anderson. The eighteen-month anniversary was an exception; after that, Sally only stayed over on Friday and Saturday nights and Sherlock made it a point to clear out long before she arrived. He tried to spend as little time as possible in the dorm room, which made it easier to tolerate Anderson when they were around each other in the gym. And spending every weekend in John's suite made the entire college experience more palatable. 

They were less than a week away from the team's first official practice and Sherlock was ready for it. He'd stepped up the number of hours he'd been spending in the gym, both on his own and with his teammates. At breakfast this morning he'd made plans with a few of the other guys to meet in the gym at three o'clock. The others went off to class, presumably, while he spent the day alone in the library with some of the true crime books he'd found in the criminology section. They were luridly written but quite compelling to read, enough so that he was almost tempted to skip the gym meet-up. Instead he checked out a half-dozen books to take back to his room and headed over to the athletic center.

He was the first player to arrive; he knew Noah's History 101 class didn't let out until three, because Sherlock himself was enrolled in the same class. He changed his shoes and then did a few stretches in the locker room while he waited. Yesterday had been a conditioning day; they weren't permitted to have official practices yet but three times a week the coaches were allowed to force them to perform endless sprints and high knees and other agility exercises and then spend an hour in the weight room. While Sherlock had found the workout easier than it had been a few weeks ago, he was still sore today. At least he'd be sleeping in his own bed tonight and not on John's sofa. He'd brought one of his pillows over to the suite and found a fleece blanket at the school store, but the college-issued, commercial-grade sofa would never be as comfortable as a bed. 

He went out into the gym to find the cheerleading team wrapping up their practice. They'd go from football season to basketball without a break, he assumed. He walked the long way around the court on his way to fetch a ball from the equipment closet so he could avoid passing too close to them. He'd been on good enough terms with a few of the cheerleaders at Hartswood, but he hadn't met any of them here yet. He knew John's ex-girlfriend was on the team, though, so that was reason enough to avoid them. Most of them were gone by the time he got the ball, thankfully; he ignored them and started to warm up with a few easy shots. 

"Hey, you must be Sherlock."

He caught his own rebound and paused before turning, though he knew who it was without looking. He wouldn't be surprised if any of the cheerleaders approached him and tried a bit of flirtation. The girl who'd just spoken to him had made it sound more like a challenge than a come-on, though. Mary. John's ex. He turned around.

He couldn't say exactly what he'd expected. A typical-looking cheerleader, probably, pretty and petite and energetic. While she was all those things she also didn't match the image he held in his head: she wore less makeup, had short hair instead of a ponytail, and her face was more clever and amused than open and earnest. "And you must be Mary." He tipped his head in acknowledgement and stared down at her, holding the basketball against his hip, waiting to see what she wanted.

She grinned as if happy to hear his deduction. "Come on, let me see what you've got." She dropped the duffle bag that held her cheer equipment onto the floor and sat down on the bleachers. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You want to see me play?"

"Yeah. I heard you were good. Let's see it."

"Where'd you hear that?" He couldn't deny feeling a little surge of pride, that people were starting to know about him on campus.

Mary laughed. "John told me about you." 

He frowned. "Why would he do that?" He didn't even understand why John would be talking to her in the first place, much less about him. 

"John won't shut up about you, really."

He squinted at her. "I didn't know the two of you were even on speaking terms."

She shrugged. "Of course we are. John's a nice guy. We didn't work out but we still talk."

"Hmm." He narrowed his eyes and absently started to dribble the ball. John had made a couple of joking remarks about his ex a few times, though now that Sherlock thought about it, he'd never really said anything negative about her. Sherlock had just assumed that most people didn't stay on good terms after breaking up with a significant other.

She smiled at him and then her phone buzzed and she seemed to lose interest, though she stayed on the bleachers while Sherlock alternated left-handed lay-ups with baseline three-point shots. 

Eventually he tried a shot that he knew he couldn't make and missed, badly; the ball ricocheted off the corner of the backboard and flew toward the bleachers, where Mary sat. He thought it might hit her but she managed to put her phone down in time and catch it. 

Rather than throw the ball back to him, she stood up and took a couple of steps onto the court, then took a shot from near the three-point line. It didn't go in but it came close; she darted to the side to catch the rebound and then tossed the ball gently through the hoop from up close. Her form wasn't bad; clearly she knew her way around a basketball court. He raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged. "I played a couple years in middle school, before I got serious about cheer."

"And then you decided you'd rather watch others than play yourself?" He was aware that his phrasing could be construed as rude but he really didn't understand her mindset.

She laughed. "Cheering for the boys is just how we get schools to be willing to fund us. Our real season starts when yours is over. Last year we went to Nationals and finished third in All-Girl Division II. A bit better than the basketball team did, don't you think?" She tossed the ball back to him and returned to her seat on the bleachers.

He didn't reply, just took another look at her, wondering why he liked her and then why he was surprised; if John had dated her she must not be completely boring. He shook his head and went back to lay-ups, paying attention to his footwork on his approach to the basket.

Eventually Noah, Jenkins and Brez all showed up. If John or any of the upperclassmen had been there, they might've ended up running drills, but Sherlock and the others were happy just to scrimmage against each other instead. 

Jenkins bounced the ball once and caught it. "Sophomores against the freshmen?" he suggested.

Sherlock glanced at Noah, the other freshman, who nodded and said, "Might not be fair to you, but we'll go easy." Sherlock smiled; he'd gotten to know both Noah and Jenkins fairly well between basketball and spending a few nights on their floor. Jenkins was the stereotypical athlete: not that bright, thought of himself as God's gift to women, cared a lot about basketball and played the game fairly well. Noah was quieter and more thoughtful, which made him easier for Sherlock to both like and respect. 

Sherlock was the smallest player there, but he wasn't afraid to match up against Jenkins while Brez and Noah, the team's two biggest men, went up against each other. Jenkins was a little bit slower than Sherlock was, and accustomed to guarding bigger players closer to the basket, which meant that Sherlock was able to take a lot of shots that he probably wouldn't get away with in an actual game. Once Jenkins figured out that Sherlock wasn't going to miss most of his shots he started coming out a little closer to him, but that just meant that Sherlock could pass the ball off to Noah underneath the basket.

He quickly became so immersed in the competition that he was surprised when he looked up and saw half an hour had gone by. Mary was still there, watching from the bench, but even more surprising to Sherlock was the fact that John had joined her. He wasn't dressed to play, though; had he stopped by just to talk to her? How had he known she was there—did she text him? Had they arranged to meet beforehand? Sherlock tried to stop himself from wondering. It didn't matter. _Why should it matter?_ John could talk to his ex-girlfriend if he wanted to. Sherlock looked away, angry at himself for caring. 

"Yo, Holmsie, come on!" Jenkins yelled at him and Sherlock put the ball to the floor and charged past him, driving close to the hoop even though Brez was in his way, six-foot nine inches of muscle set solidly in front of the basket. Sherlock rammed into him, lost control of the ball before he could even try to take a shot, and ended up knocking them both to the ground. Brez never flinched; Sherlock would've had a foul called on him if they'd been playing for real, though he liked to think he wouldn't have tried something so foolish in a game.

He landed on top of Brez, who immediately shoved him off. "Get your goddamn dick out of my face." 

Sherlock rolled to the side and climbed to his feet, shaking off the fall. "Trust me, my dick doesn't want to be anywhere near your face." It was charming, how much American slang Brez had picked up since he'd been playing for Barts. His English in general wasn't great but after a year in the States he'd become quite skilled at trash-talking.

Jenkins and Noah were both laughing; Sherlock glared at them and then heard John shout from the sideline. "Please don't kill my two guard." 

"Is he your two guard?" Jenkins asked, looking over at John and then back at Sherlock.

"I think so," John said, and stood up from the bleachers to join them on the court. 

"Does Coach know that?"

"He will soon enough." John grinned up at Sherlock and Sherlock hoped his face was already red enough from playing to hide his blush. John had been liberal with his compliments for Sherlock's playing skills since the day they met, but he never got tired of hearing it. 

Sherlock turned away from John and his embarrassingly fulfilling praise, looking for the ball that had rolled away when he'd knocked Brez down. Mary got up and retrieved it for him, but when he put his hands out to ask for it, she said, "Hate to tell you this, boys, but I think your time is up." She flicked her eyes past Sherlock and he turned to follow her gaze.

Two of the players from the women's team were standing in the doorway to their locker room. They stepped into the gym, followed a few seconds later by another half-dozen players. "Adios, boys, the girls are here." 

"Yo, we can share." Jenkins spread his arms wide, motioning to the gym as a whole.

"Nope, it's our turn. Check the schedule."

Jenkins sputtered in indignation and turned to look at Noah and Brez, who both shrugged. 

John laughed. "Let me guess, the girls actually reserved the gym but you guys just showed up without thinking about the schedule."

Jenkins shrugged. "Who looks at the schedule?"

Mary snorted and threw the ball past Sherlock to one of the girls—Jasmine or Janine or something like that. She lived in one of the suites down the hall from John with a couple of other players. She caught it and spun it in her hands. "Oooh, a big ball," she said, then tossed it back to Sherlock. "No thanks, too big for my delicate lady hands." She winked at him and then jogged away towards the equipment closet.

"Can't handle our balls." Jenkins smirked and Noah and Brez both laughed. John shook his head and looked down at the ground, then quickly glanced over at Mary, who let out a small snicker and then covered her mouth with her hand.

Sherlock returned his basketball to the cart in the closet, then followed the other guys into their locker room. As they passed through the doorway, Brez turned and stage-whispered, "Have to give the floor to the lesbians," which earned him a glare from the two girls who were close enough to hear. Brez was into the locker room before either of them could react, though, and while one of the girls extended her dirty look to Sherlock, neither of them tried to follow. 

Inside, the conversation continued, with Noah offering the sage observation that Sally couldn't be a lesbian because she was dating Anderson.

Brez laughed. "That could make any girl turn gay."

"Janine's not gay," Jenkins said. "I fucked her twice last year."

Sherlock tried to tune them out. Sometimes he felt like he should say something, when he heard teammates making slurs and generalizations like that, but it never seemed worth the trouble. That was just how guys their age talked; most of them didn't mean anything by it. He would see no personal gain from speaking up, and it could create problems, make his teammates look a little more closely at Sherlock's own preferences.

John was the only one other than Sherlock who wasn't laughing; he glanced at Sherlock and Sherlock looked away, heading toward his locker. _It's only because I'm not laughing; he doesn't suspect anything about me._ He kept his mouth shut, just went to his locker and pulled out his shoes to change. Probably some of the girls on the women's team were lesbians anyway. It wasn't his responsibility to defend anyone or to call out anyone's homophobia. He wasn't even sure if it was homophobia, or just guys making crude and tasteless jokes to impress each other. Not really his business either way, and besides, if any of his teammates were homophobic it was never going to affect him. His sex life was probably going to consist of nothing but sad wanking in his room for the next four years.

John stopped in the middle of the locker room and looked around at the other players who were all changing out of their shoes or their sweaty clothes and still laughing about the women's team being full of lesbians. Sherlock thought for a moment that John was going to tell them to knock it off, but instead he crinkled his face into a smile and said, "Hey, so does everyone know about the party on Friday?"

Sherlock had not known, but apparently it was a tradition for the team captain to throw a party every year on the night before the season's first official practice. Sherlock had avoided all of the parties that had been going on around him thus far at college, for numerous reasons, but he realized that not only couldn't he skip this one, he actually wanted to go. John was hosting it, he usually liked being around some of the rest of the team, and the start of the season was a definite reason to celebrate. The prospect cheered him up enough that he didn't mind walking back to his dorm with Brez and Noah and Jenkins, listening to them speculate about what girls would be there and how long it would take campus security to show up to make sure no one was drinking on school property.

They all lived in the same dorm, though not on the same floor. Sherlock climbed up the stairs to the third floor, letting himself fantasize a little about what it would be like once the whole team was together for practice almost every day. He'd be spending at least three hours a day with John, six days a week. He smiled and unlocked the door to his room, pushing it open with his foot and swinging his book-filled backpack off his shoulder as he entered. He dropped it onto the floor just inside the doorway and glanced up to find Anderson completely naked and sprawled on his stomach with his head between Sally's thighs. 

_Oh God._ Sherlock's fight or flight response failed and he stood frozen two steps into the room, staring at them while simultaneously trying not to see. _At least they're in his bed and not mine._ The thought broke his paralysis just as Sally called him a freak and screamed at him to get out. He turned and fled, pulling the door shut behind him, not even sure if he had his key to get back in again later but too repulsed to care. Sally was still yelling at him through the door; he couldn't resist shouting back at her, eyes pinched shut as he tried to expunge the sight of her legs spread around Anderson's head. "It's four o'clock on a Monday afternoon; how sex-addicted are you?"

Sally's voice shrieked into incomprehensibility but Anderson chimed in with his opinion. "If you'd go to your classes like a normal person we wouldn't have to guess about when you're going to be back!" 

Sherlock growled and slammed his fists against the closed door. He'd left the bag with the library books he wanted to read inside the room. He leaned his head on the door for a moment and then pushed himself away from it, brushing his hands down over his t-shirt and track pants as if he could wipe off the contamination of seeing Sally and Anderson together. He squared his shoulders and headed back down the hall toward the stairs. Maybe John had something good to read in his suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basketball notes: John refers to Sherlock as a "two guard" which is just another term for a shooting guard, a player who specializes in shooting, usually from a distance. The regulation size ball for women's basketball is an inch smaller in circumference than the men's ball.
> 
> As always, I love, love, love to hear what you think! Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

Even the misery of having to live with Anderson after having seen him naked wasn't enough to dim Sherlock's enthusiasm as the week went on. _First practice on Saturday, first practice on Saturday, first practice on Saturday._ He knew he wasn't the only one who was excited; the whole team was ready for the season to officially begin. 

The party was Friday evening; Sherlock headed over to the suites early. John and Campbell, who were the only team members old enough to drink legally, had gone out to buy beer, so Sherlock sat on the sofa and ate pizza and watched Tay play video games until they got back. He was expecting them to return loaded down with kegs and cases, but instead they returned empty-handed.

"Where's the beer?" 

"We can't have beer in here—what if we got busted? The whole starting line-up would get suspended." John flopped down onto the sofa next to him and reached for the last piece of mushrooms and olives.

"So where is it?" Sherlock hardly ever drank; he didn't like the taste of beer and liked the loss of control that accompanied drinking too much even less, but he knew that alcohol was the primary attraction at most college parties.

"Over in Eric's room," John said, gesturing with the piece of pizza in his hand.

"Eric?"

"Eric Snyder," John said, as if that should mean something to Sherlock. "Small forward, shoots left-handed, he knocked you on your ass last week and then spent the rest of the practice apologizing?"

"Oh, Eric-the-walk-on." Sherlock nodded. The walk-on players were kind of interchangeable in his mind, just there to give them enough people to play with in practice. 

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Nice of you to notice him. Because you know the whole point of having walk-ons on the team is to give us a place to hide our beer." 

Tay snickered and then said, "Well, and sometimes they end up getting some playing time and then a scholarship and then they become the star of the team." 

"Fuck you." John flipped Tay off with the hand that wasn't holding the pizza.

"No, fuck you. I just gave you a compliment." 

"You're dredging up my shameful past," John said. "Reminding me how I wasn't good enough to get a scholarship my first two seasons." Sherlock couldn't quite tell if John was actually upset; he sounded sincere but he was also smiling.

Tay leaned across the sofa and patted John's head. "It's just cause you're so little. People don't see past your tininess at first." 

"Oh, you—" John paused to set his half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box and then aimed a punch at Tay, laughing. 

Tay stopped him easily, holding him at arm's length with one hand. "Such a tiny little guy." 

John narrowed his eyes and growled, then shot his foot out to hit Tay in the shins. Tay yelped and pulled his leg back. "Ooh, the little guy's feisty."

Sherlock swallowed and looked away, disturbed at how arousing he found John's growl and mock anger. He tried to focus on finishing off the pizza instead of the little wrestling match that John and Tay were now engaging in next to him. 

"I'm eating the last piece," he announced, which got their attention. Tay ended up fighting Campbell for the pizza, which was far less distracting to Sherlock. 

When they were done eating, John tossed his crusts into the box and stood up. "All right, people will start getting here soon." He nodded at Tay and Campbell. "You guys go check your rooms, make sure there's nothing out that you don't mind someone vomiting on. Sherlock, you come with me and we'll make sure everything's ready at the beer station."

Sherlock followed John down the hall, learning along the way that the party was expected to extend far beyond John's and Eric-the-walk-on's suites. The girls from the women's team who lived in the same hallway were co-hosting, and several of the other suites nearby would open their doors to the party-goers as well.

When they got to his suite, Sherlock was pleased to see that he did recognize Eric, even if he hadn't recalled his name. They chatted about tomorrow's practice while John double-checked the arrangement of kegs and cans and cups and snacks. Apparently he found everything to be satisfactory, because after a few minutes he filled a cup from one of the kegs and offered it to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head and then caught the look of panic that flashed across John's face. "Sorry, I didn't mean—" John pulled the cup back so quickly that some of the beer sloshed out over his hand, then brought his hand up to his mouth to lick off what had spilled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, trying not to let on how the sight of John's tongue affected him. "I told you I don't have a drinking problem. I just don't like beer."

"Oh, right. Uh." John lifted the cup to his mouth and took a long swig. "Um, in the past there have sometimes been people with pot at these parties. Is that...a problem for you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really my style."

John met his eyes briefly and then looked away. "I can't say for sure that there won't be anything harder. I mean, if you stay in our suite you should be okay, but—"

"John, don't worry about it." He tried to smile. He appreciated John's concern, but any reference to his former habits still made him very uncomfortable. "I'm at Barts to play basketball. My former...predilections are not compatible with that goal, so they're not something I'm likely to pursue. All right?"

John stared at him and then shook his head, smiling. "I love how sometimes you seem like a normal freshman and then other times you use words like "predilections" and "compatible."

"Really? Compatible? Is that considered a big word in America?" He tried to keep himself from grinning back at John but failed.

"Yes." John tipped the cup up and gulped the rest of the beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Anything with more than two syllables. Syll-a-bles. Hey, I used a big word. No wonder I'm in grad school."

Back in John's suite, Campbell had taken charge of the music, armed with a pile of iPods; none of it was to Sherlock's taste, but he'd had years to get used to that. People here seemed to think it was because he was from England, but pop music was just as prevalent there as in America; Sherlock had just never developed a taste for it. Too much listening to Mummy's classical violin-playing as a child, he assumed, but he wouldn't have changed it if he could. Not for the first time, he wished he'd brought his violin with him to college. He would've loved to audition for the school's orchestra, but he knew that basketball was too time-consuming to allow time for any other extracurricular activities.

It wasn't long before other people started arriving; first the rest of the both the men's and women's teams, then other students, only a few of whom Sherlock recognized. By the time the party was in full-swing he estimated there were at least three hundred people, spread between the suites and common areas at the end of the hall. Sherlock himself tried to stick with his teammates, floating from group to group, always feeling a little out of place because the other players seemed to better know how to interact with people who weren't on the team. Maybe he should try a beer or two; not all of his teammates were drinking, but those who were certainly seemed to be enjoying the effects.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock found himself repeatedly drifting back to John, who was playing the proper host and socializing with everyone, although he seemed to have stopped drinking after the first beer he'd had earlier. 

When Mary showed up about an hour after the party started, Sherlock thought nothing of it; he had seen a few other girls he thought were cheerleaders here tonight. Mary waved a little hello at him and he gave her a nod; he was standing in John's kitchen eating spicy pretzels and listening to two of the walk-ons argue about the NBA. She stepped up too close into his personal space and shouted to be heard over the music and party chatter. "John around?"

 _Of course she's here to see him._ He tried to force himself to think about it objectively. John was the main host of the party and he and Mary were still friends; it was completely natural for her to want to say hello. Sherlock shrugged and gestured at the mass of people in the suite's main living area. "He's here somewhere."

Mary nodded and smiled up at him, giving him a look that felt a little too appraising to be comfortable. She patted his arm as she walked past; he turned, a bit shocked at the contact, and so saw John as he emerged from his own bedroom and caught sight of Mary. Which was a mistake. John's face brightened at the sight of her; Sherlock swallowed and turned away again, unwilling to watch them reunite as Mary headed down the hall toward John's room. 

He glanced around to see who else was nearby. The walk-ons he'd been talking to had moved on, and there were a half-dozen people he didn't know crowded into the kitchen around him. Tay and Campbell had long ago disappeared across the hall into the girls' suite, and Jenkins was in the living room, busy with three girls who were competing to see who could drape herself the most completely over him while he reclined on the sofa. Even Anderson had found someone to talk to; one of the cheerleaders, Sherlock thought. She was petite and curvy and perky and looked nothing at all like Sally, who was nowhere to be seen.

Tempting as it was to stick around to see what might happen when Sally showed up and saw the way the little cheerleader was giggling and touching Anderson's arm, Sherlock knew that if he left now, no one would notice. He'd put in an appearance; what more could they ask? He could go home and get a good night's sleep and be ready for tomorrow's practice instead of tired and hungover like everyone else was probably going to be.

He stepped out into the hallway, picking his way through the crowd of people. It was clear not everyone was following the "no beer outside of Eric's suite" rule, but it wasn't his concern, although he did try not to jostle anyone holding a cup. 

"Sherlock!" 

He turned at the voice; someone calling to him from inside the beer suite, but not one of his teammates. A girl's voice, familiar, who—? _Oh. Molly._ He was mildly surprised that she was here, but she did know all of the team by this point, so he guessed it made some sort of sense. He turned around to say hello; other than his teammates, she was just about the only person he knew tonight.

Molly stepped out into the hallway, holding a half-full plastic cup. She had let her hair down and put on a bit of lipstick and eye makeup, not a drastic change from how she usually looked, but enough to mark tonight as a special occasion. Her look didn't do anything for Sherlock personally, but he could appreciate the effort. Parties didn't seem to be Molly's natural milieu any more than they were his. He'd certainly gone to his fair share at Hartswood, but mostly because they were an easy way to hook up with someone who'd be eager to retreat to an empty room with him. 

Although, now that he thought about it, he could do that here, too. He hadn't planned to, hadn't even wanted to, but that had been before John had disappeared into his bedroom with his ex-girlfriend and all the rest of his teammates had found other ways to amuse themselves. _Maybe...._ He took another look at Molly, who smiled up at him and said, "I was wondering if you'd be here tonight."

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?" He allowed a small smile back at her, and leaned one shoulder against the painted concrete block of the hallway's wall.

"Hadn't seen you at any other parties this year." Molly shifted her beer cup to her left hand and jutted her right hip out toward Sherlock, toying with a piece of her hair that had strayed over her shoulder. So yes, he could definitely hook up with her if he wanted to tonight. He wasn't too surprised. He'd picked up faint flickers of interest from her at the team study sessions, although he thought it might've been based more on an academic respect since he'd started doing as much tutoring as she did with some of the other players. She was definitely after something more than his intellect right now. 

He blinked his eyes closed for a moment, wondering what he should do. Molly probably had very little experience in what he would want her to do, and she'd appeared to have drunk enough that he'd be able to smell the beer even when she was on her knees in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward John's suite, and made a decision. This would probably be the best offer he would get tonight, and maybe it would take his mind off the fact that John seemed to have gotten back together with Mary. 

He suppressed a sigh and angled his body more toward Molly, still leaning on the wall with one hand. She shifted with him, echoing his movements. Yes, definitely open to whatever he suggested. He felt a little bit bad, because he did sort of like her, and after she did this and then he walked away she was probably going to be upset with him, assuming she remembered. And he didn't think she was drunk enough not to remember. He moved again, settling a hip against the wall, and ran his hand through his hair, watching her eyes follow the motion. No, she wasn't too drunk. Maybe he should try a beer, too; maybe he'd enjoy her a little more then. 

He looked around, wondering where to take her. He'd certainly been to parties where people had been willing to suck him off in full view of everyone else. Usually it was the girls who did that; boys tended to want a more private spot before they'd get down on their knees for him, at least back in high school. No doubt that was true here, too, perhaps even more so. The good Catholics of St. Barts definitely would want their gay sex to happen behind closed doors. He didn't really want Molly to have to get him off in public, though, if he could help it. He liked her well enough and she was probably going to be terribly embarrassed about the whole thing when she sobered up, especially since he had no intention of reciprocating. 

He pushed himself away from the wall and glanced through the door into Eric's suite. It was full of people, wall-to-wall, most of them much drunker than Molly. Maybe they could find an empty bedroom in the girls' suite; he'd like to avoid John's suite if possible. 

He took the beer cup out of Molly's hand; she giggled but didn't object, and he wondered if perhaps she was playing up how much she'd had just a bit. She certainly seemed steady enough as she walked in her heeled boots down the hall in front of him, swaying a little into his hand where he held it against her hip but never losing the rhythm of her step. He thought about finishing off what was in the cup but tossed it into one of the trash bins at the end of the hall instead; he really didn't care for the taste of beer. He guided her across the hall toward the girls' suite; from the sound of it there were fewer people in there, though it was still crowded. 

Molly stepped through the door ahead of him; he had to wait while two girls from the women's team stumbled out past her into the hall, arms entwined, faces pressed side to side as they held each other up. He felt a brief stab of jealousy that guys couldn't act that way with their teammates; maybe if he got too drunk to walk John would drag him back to his room to sleep it off, but he wouldn't press his face against Sherlock's in doing so. 

"Sherlock!" Molly must've noticed he hadn't followed right behind her. 

"Coming," he replied, and stepped aside to let the two drunk girls pass, hoping they knew enough to stay out of sight of any campus security that might show up. He didn't care if most of the students here got busted for underage drinking but it would be a shame for any of the athletes to have to sit out games.

Molly stuck her head back out through the doorway, leaning against the frame so her shirt hiked up a little bit around her waist. She was doing that on purpose; he wondered if she really couldn't read his lack of interest or if she just didn't care. She reached out a hand to grab at his shirt and pull. He looked down at her hand—yes, absolutely steady—she was definitely playing up being drunker than she really was. Maybe she wanted to be able to deny doing this tomorrow. She tipped her head coyly toward him and he smiled at her, then turned around as a blare of loud music escaped as someone opened the door across the hall. 

He shouldn't have looked. Mary was the one who had opened the door. John wasn't with her, which he guessed was good, but seeing her reminded Sherlock of him, and made him feel both guilty for how he was about to use Molly and even more eager to do it. 

"Sherlock!" Mary sounded surprised to see him, which was stupid, since she knew he was here. Maybe she thought he'd left. She glanced from him to Molly and then back again, then frowned. Sherlock could feel the dirty look Molly was giving Mary; he felt Molly's hand tighten on his arm as she tried to pull him through the door into the girls' suite. Mary looked down at her own hands for a moment, worrying them together, then tilted her face up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "John was looking for you, Sherlock, if you've got a minute." 

"He doesn't." Molly stepped out into the hall again; Sherlock slid to the side to stop her from pressing their bodies together. 

Mary glanced at her and then back up at Sherlock. "I—I think you need to go talk to him. Molly." She said the last in a voice that Sherlock couldn't parse. It sounded like a reprimand, but why would Mary care if he and Molly hooked up? Whatever John wanted could want until later. _What does he even want anyway?_ If it was to spread the news that he and Mary were back together, Sherlock didn't want to hear it. 

The door behind Mary opened again and it was John; of course it was John, who else would it be? Sherlock tried not to turn toward him—he was going to go find a dark corner somewhere with Molly—but he couldn't stop himself. 

John had changed his clothes; whereas before he'd been dressed as Sherlock was, in a school t-shirt and warm-up athletic trousers, now he now wore jeans and a polo shirt, and he'd slicked his hair back from his face. Sherlock blinked at him, then glanced at Mary. She looked exactly as she had a few minutes ago, not a hair out of place. Whatever they'd done in John's room that caused him to have to change his outfit had had no effect on Mary. Sherlock squinted at the two of them. Mary gave him a wide grin, but John didn't meet his eyes, just stood there in his polo shirt with his combed-back hair looking as good as anyone Sherlock had ever seen. He felt a brief surge of anger; John had just gone off alone with his ex-girlfriend and done whatever it was that they had done together, but now that Sherlock actually had his first chance in months to get off with someone besides himself, John was here cock-blocking him. It didn't matter that Sherlock wasn't at all interested in Molly. _She's willing and I'm—_

Next to him, Molly made a small sound of inhalation; he felt the absence of her body heat as she stepped back into the girls' suite, away from him. Was everyone conspiring to ensure that he didn't get the chance to experience anything remotely resembling a good time tonight? 

"Sorry, Molly," Mary said. "But John was just telling me about this new play that he came up with, and he really wants to show it to Sherlock."

John nodded his head in agreement; Sherlock watched him make fists of both hands and then run his thumbs over the first fingers.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He didn't know exactly what was going on but he wasn't keen on letting Mary and John think they could disrupt his plans so easily. "You can show me tomorrow at practice," he said, and turned back toward Molly.

"No." John surprised him with a hand on Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock paused. John cleared his throat and finally looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I really want to show you tonight."

Molly took another step away from him. John's hand tightened fractionally on his arm— _or maybe I'm imagining it_ —and Sherlock didn't try to follow her. "I'm sorry, Molly, I—"

"It's okay." Molly tossed her hair back over her shoulder, glanced into the suite behind her. "I'm going to say hi to Janine. Maybe I'll see you later tonight, Sherlock." She turned and fled into the girls' suite, letting the door slam shut behind her.

John let go of Sherlock's arm and Sherlock glanced down and then over at John. "Thanks for that, I—" 

"That's not what you want, Sherlock, and we all know it." Sherlock looked at Mary in surprise as she shoved him toward John; she was a lot stronger than she looked, he had to give her that. He stumbled a step before righting himself. John swallowed and glanced past him at Mary. He nodded once at whatever he saw on her face and then said, "Right, then. Come on." He turned and strode across the hall, back into his own suite. Sherlock blinked after him for a moment, then followed. John owed him an explanation at least, even if Sherlock felt mostly relief that he wasn't going to take advantage of Molly for a few minutes of one-sided pleasure. 

He followed John back through the crush of people filling the suite's kitchen and living room and then down the slightly less crowded hallway to the bedrooms. John turned around as if to make sure Sherlock was following, then nodded toward his own bedroom. "Quieter in here," he said, and pushed open the door. Sherlock followed him in, slightly hesitant; he didn't know what John wanted to talk to him about but he was fairly certain it wasn't basketball. They'd just passed three of their teammates on the way through the suite; why would John only want to tell him about a new play?

"Shut the door," John said, and Sherlock did as he was told. 

John took a deep breath and closed his hands into fists again. "I didn't mean to interrupt you and Molly, if that's what you really wanted," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "No, I—" He stopped, aware that it would be a bit not good to tell John that he would rather hang out here in his bedroom with him than go off alone with Molly.

"Good," John said, and unclenched his fists. "You see, the thing about Mary is, she thinks she knows what people want." 

"Er, okay." _If he dragged me in here to tell me that he and Mary are getting back together...._

"The thing is, she's usually right." John inhaled deeply and then lunged at Sherlock, knocking him off balance. Sherlock stumbled backwards and then John pushed him up against the wall and kissed him. 

John was warm; Sherlock felt points of heat radiating from his hands where they pressed against Sherlock's chest and arm and from his lips and.... He hadn't...he hadn't known. He hadn't _known_. About kissing, about John, about John wanting to kiss him, about anything, apparently. He still didn't know. How—how was John even doing this, and why did it feel so good? All the hours he'd spent fantasizing over the last two months had never involved kissing. Sherlock didn't kiss people. 

He was so taken by surprise that it took him a moment to recover and assess the situation; the fact that being kissed by John felt so good added to the difficulty. John seemed to have somehow gotten Sherlock completely under his control. Sherlock had at least six inches on him but John had cunningly managed to minimize the height difference; Sherlock was slumped against the wall so their faces were nearly level. It probably wasn't supposed to be a competition, but.... He straightened up a little; John followed until he was up on his toes, still kissing. He broke away for a moment and then lunged upwards with a growl, hands wrapping around Sherlock's head and pulling his face back down.

Sherlock made an embarrassing little noise, which caused John to kiss him harder for a moment and then pull away. They both took a gasping breath of air and then John was pushing him again, toward the bed this time, and Sherlock let him, let John shove him onto his back on the mattress and climb on top of him.

John bent forward to kiss him again, his body stretched across Sherlock's, and Sherlock let sensation envelop him. It was overwhelming, John's touch, even through his clothes. A small part of him wanted to pull away, return this to the level of encounter he was accustomed to. But asking John to stop now was out of the question, and Sherlock's body was doing its best to make up for lost time now that it had discovered what it had been missing for so long. _Touch. Everywhere. Touch._

"Oh, God, Sherlock." John was whispering, but Sherlock thought that was more for his benefit than for fear of being discovered. The music pulsing through the suite would surely drown out any noise the two of them could possibly make together. "You feel even better than I imagined." 

"You—imagined this?" The thought was astounding; he was certain that John luring him into his bedroom and then attacking him with a kiss and throwing him onto the bed was the result of one too many beers and tonight's atmosphere of general debauchery rather than any forethought on John's part. 

"Mm. Since the first time I saw you." John squirmed atop him and slipped his right hand beneath the hem of Sherlock's shirt, his fingers hot and firm against Sherlock's stomach. 

Sherlock struggled to form a coherent thought. "I thought you liked girls." 

"I do," John said. "Also guys." He put his mouth on Sherlock's again and Sherlock gave up. Maybe he could ask John more about it later, or maybe tonight was a one-off and they were never going to mention it again; either way, Sherlock was going to enjoy every moment. He opened his mouth and let John's tongue in, pressed back with his. Why had he turned down people who wanted to kiss him before now? He could've practiced so he wouldn't feel like such a novice now; John was surely going to notice and laugh at his technique. He tried to fake it, letting John take the lead and occasionally copying something he did with his tongue or his teeth. John's mouth was salty from snack foods and tasted faintly of beer; Sherlock's own mouth was still spicy from the pretzels he'd eaten. John didn't seem to care, or notice that Sherlock was unpracticed; he was certainly enjoying himself, if the moans coming out of his mouth were any indication. He squirmed underneath John, knowing that he would be able to feel Sherlock's cock pressing against his thigh, but that was okay because he could feel John's, thick and hard and hot through the denim of his jeans.

Then John slipped his hands up from Sherlock's waist to his head, which shouldn't have been even more erotic, but somehow it was. Sherlock shivered at the touch of John's fingers on his scalp. John must've felt his reaction; he pushed his leg more firmly between Sherlock's, not seeming to mind that Sherlock was rutting against his thigh, and threaded both hands into his hair, tugging lightly. Sherlock lost the ability to kiss with any sort of coordinated movement; he let his mouth fall open, turned his head a fraction of an inch to the side so he could breathe, and let the panting groans that wanted to come break free. John moaned in reply and Sherlock thought his heart might explode. His groans turned into whimpers and for a panicky moment he tried to push John off so he could slow this down, but it was too late. He tightened his fingers in the rough fabric of John's polo shirt and pulled him closer, arching his back off the bed and pressing as much of himself against John as he could. The orgasm was simultaneously better than any he had ever experienced and the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him. He loosened his grip on John's shirt but kept his eyes squeezed shut, hoping John had had more than the single beer Sherlock had seen him drink so he might pass out and not remember any of this tomorrow. 

Rather than passing out, John breathed heavily against Sherlock's cheek and stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair again. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to—" 

Sherlock opened his eyes and peered at John, whose face was only inches above his. "Why on earth are you apologizing? I'm the one who just came in his pants like a twelve-year-old." 

John smiled and then ducked his head to drop a kiss on his lips again. "You are definitely not a twelve-year-old. But I should've asked you if you wanted to keep going or something." 

"Oh, I wanted to keep going," Sherlock assured him. He tried to move his head away a little so he could get a good look at John's face without dislodging him from his very pleasing position atop Sherlock. "John. What are we doing here?" 

John pushed himself up a few inches and looked down at Sherlock for a moment, then sat up all the way, straddling Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock thought he saw a flicker of doubt cross his face so he reached out and took his hands so he couldn't get away. 

John did not try to get away , though he did pull his hands free so he could unbutton his jeans. "Tell me to stop if you want me to."

"No. Don't stop." He swallowed and shifted underneath John, then hesitantly drew John's jeans open, pushing them out of the way so he could see what John wore beneath them. Boxer briefs, black, the fabric stretched taut over his erection. Sherlock let his hands fall away and dropped his head back onto the pillow. Maybe he was the one who had passed out, drunk or high, and this was all a dream.

John wiggled atop him, pushing the waistband of his briefs down enough to free his cock. Definitely real: Sherlock didn't think his dream-self would ever think to combine the quick bite of pain where John's legs pinched his thighs with the dull pleasure of lingering aftershocks that coursed through him every time John moved. 

Sherlock watched as John took himself in his hand. He was thick and flushed dark red, circumcised, like a lot of guys here in America. Sherlock wondered what would happen if he reached his hand out now, if John would object or let him touch, allow him to compare the feel of his full cock to Sherlock's own. He groaned and thought it was quite possible that he was getting hard again already. He clutched at John's comforter with both hands to prevent himself from reaching out and watched John stroke himself, just a few rough pulls and then his thighs tightened around Sherlock's hips, pinching again. Sherlock watched him come, long, stuttering streaks that arced through the air and landed on Sherlock's chest. 

John collapsed backwards, settling his weight uncomfortably on Sherlock's legs. "God, Sherlock, I—" He stopped, catching his breath, then looked up toward the door to the room. "Fuck!"

Sherlock panicked as John slid off him to stand on the floor, but the door didn't open; they hadn't been caught. "What—?" 

"No, it's okay." John was tucking himself back into his pants, still breathing heavily. "I just realized we've been in here a while and we need to go back out eventually. I don't know how long Mary can keep people from looking for me. Let me grab you a clean shirt."

Sherlock sat up; the wet shirt shifted clammily against his torso. John pulled a college tee out of his chest of drawers, nearly identical to the one Sherlock wore. "Hope you can fit into a medium," he said, and tossed it across the room. He glanced at the closed door again and ran his hands through his hair. "I want—I want to stay here but there are like a hundred people in my apartment right now. I'm gonna go out there, and then you come out in a few minutes, all right?"" 

Sherlock nodded and pulled his dirty shirt over his head. His brain was a little offline after what they'd just done, but he had no desire to come out to the entire team and a good chunk of the student body under these circumstances. Luckily his nylon warm-up trousers and the compression shorts he wore underneath showed no sign of incriminating evidence.

John crossed the room to stand next to the bed again. "This is not me running out on you, okay? It's just me having bad timing doing this tonight." He stooped and kissed Sherlock again, just a quick peck this time, and ran one hand up Sherlock's bare chest. "God," he said, then turned his back to Sherlock and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock spent too long picking out what to wear to practice the next morning, considering that he wore the same thing every time he went to the gym: baggy basketball shorts beneath a fitted sports t-shirt. He examined himself in the mirror on the back of his dorm room's door, wondering if the color of the shirt worked with his skin tone. _Don't be stupid._ It didn't matter what he wore; his primary concern should be impressing Lestrade with his basketball prowess, not John with the fit of his clothes. He pulled the red t-shirt off and chose the dark purple one instead; it contrasted well with his skin tone.

Anderson had never returned to their room last night, so Sherlock headed over to the gym on his own. He was a few minutes early, but nearly everyone else on the team was already in the locker room when he got there; apparently he wasn't the only one eager to start today. He made his way to his locker so he could change his shoes.

"Hey, Sherlock." 

Sherlock straightened up at the sound of John's voice, mind racing to interpret his tone. He sounded like he always did: warm, friendly, relaxed even. _All right. Good. Act normal._ It wasn't as easy as it sounded; usually Sherlock just avoided people he got off with, but he couldn't avoid John, even if he'd wanted to. And he certainly didn't want to, but the number of confusing new feelings that came with having a sexual encounter with someone he actually liked was threatening to overwhelm him. How did ordinary people do this? After he left the party he'd spent the night alternating between remembering how glorious it had felt when John was on top of him and thinking that it had been a horrible mistake, some sort of joke or hazing ritual that John was putting him through. He'd jerked off twice to the memory of John kneeling over him with his cock out, then convinced himself that when he showed up at practice today everyone was going to laugh at him. At least John still seemed to want to talk to him, and no one else appeared to notice anything unusual.

Sherlock returned John's greeting, but he knew he wouldn't be able to find out exactly what John thought about last night until they were alone. Right now all of their teammates were milling about the locker room, pulling on clean t-shirts and shorts; half of them had wandered in still wearing yesterday's clothes. _If I'd shown up in last night's clothes I'd still be wearing John's shirt._ He pushed the thought away and focused on getting ready for practice. _Basketball._

Eventually everyone trickled out into the gym; Lestrade corralled them onto the bleachers and then proceeded to start the practice with a speech, of course. At least he kept it short, ending with a reminder to stay hydrated; clearly he knew about last night's party. 

Lestrade ran them through a few minutes of stretches and sprints and then moved onto actual drills: three players at a time, two passes and then a shot, everyone getting a turn at every position. Sherlock watched as John caught a pass, took a short dribble and then pulled up for a perfect shot. _Nice._ He grinned as John jogged past him and almost missed the ball when Campbell threw it to him. He recovered enough to catch it but then made a sloppy pass to Jenkins.

He didn't think anyone besides Jenkins really noticed his poor pass, but it wasn't the way he wanted to start the season. He watched the rest of the team as he waited for his turn to come around again. Several of the bigger players were going in for flashy dunks when it was their turn to shoot; Lestrade told them to knock it off but it didn't stop anyone. When it was John's turn again he ended up with the ball underneath the basket; Campbell yelled at him to dunk but instead John flipped him off with his left hand while making an effortless, no-look lay-up with his right hand. Sherlock could shoot from up close with his non-dominant hand, but not without looking and not as smoothly as John could. He was still marveling over John's shot when he came up in the rotation again. He caught the ball without a problem this time but the shot he took wasn't pretty; he used too much force and the ball rattled the backboard but didn't go in.

"Softly, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted at him. "What happened to that nice light touch you're supposed to have? You're not trying to punish the ball."

Sherlock grimaced and got back into line behind John. "Don't take it personally," John said.

"I know," Sherlock replied. Coaches yelled; that was their job. Lestrade shouted at everyone more or less equally; Sherlock knew he wasn't being singled out. And honestly, he wasn't playing as well as he should be. As they continued warming up he made about half the shots he took, but in a drill situation like this his percentage should've been much higher than that. It didn't help that every time he touched the ball he wondered if John was watching him. He hoped so—he was certainly paying attention to John's every move—but it was also throwing him off.

When they finally finished the drill Lestrade gave them another little lecture. "I know it's our first full practice and you're all excited, but it's important to stay focused. Always think about your form, where your body is. If you practice sloppy, your body's going to remember that and you'll play sloppy come game time. And I have no sympathy for anyone who isn't feeling one hundred percent today. I'm looking the other way right now but after today anyone who comes to practice with a hangover will regret it." He nodded as if that vague threat would prevent over a dozen college students from drinking and then proceeded to divide the team up to scrimmage. "Freshmen and sophomores come with me, juniors and seniors go with Dimmock. Excuse me, I meant juniors and seniors and _grad students_." 

John gave Lestrade a good-natured glare at the correction while the rest of the team chuckled and Sherlock exhaled in both relief and frustration that he and John would be separated for the rest of practice.

It was much easier to focus on the game without John in close proximity. He was able to study the other players, observing their play today and combining it with what he already knew about them. Brez was slow to react if he was forced to his left, so Sherlock could get a shot off if he stayed to that side. When Brez finally figured out the pattern, Sherlock started alternating his shots with quick passes to Noah. Soon enough the rush of the game overpowered Sherlock's memories of last night. Lestrade's shouts became compliments as often as they were criticisms, and with each shot Sherlock made he grew more relaxed and confident. It was simply a matter of silencing his mind enough to allow his body to take over and do what he had trained it to do. 

He'd just made a particularly sweet shot from the top of the key—lots of arc, perfect angle—when the door on the other side of the gym banged open. He was inclined to keep playing, but Brez caught the ball and held it, watching whomever had entered the gym, so Sherlock turned to look. It was a closed practice; no one should be here, but he wouldn't be too surprised if some of the more dedicated fans on campus wanted to watch.

It was not a fan but Sally Donovan who strode into the gym, trailed by three of her teammates. Sherlock was briefly reminded of the day last week when the women's team had kicked them out of the gym but clearly that wasn't why the girls were here today. Even if Sally hadn't been dressed in street clothes—a nice-looking blouse and skirt, actually, far dressier than her usual attire—Sherlock knew that they had their first official practice later this afternoon. 

Sally didn't acknowledge anyone as she crossed the court to the half of the gym where the upperclassmen were. Play had halted on both sides of the court; everyone stared at her, even Lestrade and Dimmock, who made no move to stop her. She paused near the three-point line, about a dozen feet from Anderson, who was holding the ball and gaping at her. The three girls behind Sally arranged themselves in a loose arc; if they were trying to look imposing, they were doing a good job. The girl with the blond braids was their starting center; she had a good two inches on Sherlock and probably outweighed him, which meant she positively dwarfed Anderson. The other two girls weren't as large, but even Janine, who was just Sally's height if a bit broader, made it clear from her expression and stance that only a fool would try to tangle with her.

Sherlock hadn't wasted a thought on why Anderson hadn't come back to their dorm room last night, but one look at Sally and it was obvious that he had not spent the night with her. The last time Sherlock had seen him, Anderson had been in John's living room with some curvy little cheerleader. 

There was a pause for a moment—Sherlock could practically see the fury emanating from Sally—and Lestrade took a step onto the court from where he'd been standing near the baseline, but before he could open his mouth Sally started to speak. Not yell, not shout, though she was loud enough to be heard clearly from across the gym, which was dead silent as everyone waited to hear what she would say.

"Lexie Barrett? Was that really the best you could do, Philip?"

"I didn't—" 

"Or was it just that she was drunk enough not to turn you down?"

"She wasn't—I mean, we didn't even do anything, not really!" Anderson shifted the basketball so he held it out in front of him instead of on his hip, as if he could use it as a weapon or possibly a shield against Sally's wrath.

"Right. I might believe you if there weren't a hundred witnesses who saw you with her. And Jeanette saw you go into her dorm with her." The thin, dark-haired girl next to Sally nodded and glowered at Anderson.

Anderson stepped toward Sally and let go of the ball; it hit the floor and bounced weakly a few times before rolling away. "Sally, I didn't mean anything by it. You weren't there and I—I was pretty drunk myself and—" He took another step toward her, which put him close enough for her to reach out and touch him—Sherlock would've warned him, had he been so inclined, but this was far too entertaining to stop. Sally didn't disappoint. She lowered her chin for a moment, then lifted it. Sherlock thought she was going to spit in his face, but no, she went with a slap instead, a open-handed blow that caught Anderson completely unaware; the sound of it resonated in the quiet gym, along with Anderson's answering grunt of surprise.

The slap seemed to break Lestrade out of his disbelieving trance. "Hey now, Donovan!" he shouted, and crossed the gym much more quickly than Sherlock had ever seen him move before. "If you've got a personal issue with one of my players, you're going to have to save it for later."

Sally spun on her heel to glare at Lestrade; Sherlock was impressed by the fact that neither one of them backed down. 

A few of the other players had started laughing at the slap and Anderson's reaction to it. "It's not funny!" Anderson dropped his hand from his face, revealing a bright red patch. "She's wearing a ring!"

Sally turned away from Lestrade at that. She brought her hands together briefly and then turned and threw something toward Anderson. "Keep your stupid promises, Philip! I never believed you anyway! You were just a convenient fuck!" The ring landed by Anderson's feet and then skidded across the floor. No one moved to pick it up. 

"All right, Donovan." Lestrade was louder now, beginning to sound truly angry. "Enough. Get out. This is a private practice session. I may not be your coach, but trust me, I can have you benched if necessary."

Sally clenched her fists and looked from Lestrade to Anderson and back again. Sherlock could see her nostrils flare; he wondered if she was actually going to hit Lestrade, as well. Then she really would get benched. She opened her mouth and then closed it and turned on her heel. The other girls stepped aside to let her storm past, then followed her out of the gym, using the door at the far end of the court rather than the one through which they had entered. A pity: Sherlock would've liked to see her anger up close—he was fascinated by the way strong emotions could make people do things they wouldn't normally, and how quickly they could be motivated to violence.

The steel door clicked shut behind the girls and everyone in the gym started to talk at once. "Oh, man, you should've seen your face, Anderson." 

"Dude, did you really hook up with Lexie Barrett? She's hot." 

"No way, she's a slag. Sally's way better than her." 

"Enough! Everyone shut up!" Lestrade shouted. "We're taking a short break. Go get a drink of water or something. Five minutes, then we're going five-on-five with the whole team. Anderson, get your ass over here and let me look at your face. If she broke the skin you'll need to bandage it."

Anderson put his hand back up to his cheek. "No, but I could use an ice pack," he muttered. 

Sherlock turned away, laughing at Anderson's discomfort but not really interested in joining the discussion of the relative merits of Sally Donovan compared to Lexie the cheerleader. He'd left his water bottle in the locker room earlier, so he jogged across the gym and pushed through the swinging door to retrieve it. He grabbed the bottle off the bench where he'd left it and turned around to find John had followed him into the changing area.

John stopped at the end of the row of lockers. His blue t-shirt was dark with sweat. Sherlock popped the cap on his water and took a sip to force himself to look away. He couldn't stop the memory of last night, of pulling off his own soiled shirt and wriggling into John's borrowed tee. 

"Hey." John smiled at him, but it wasn't quite the confident grin he'd displayed yesterday. "You left the party kind of early last night." 

_Oh, he's nervous, too._ The idea oddly made Sherlock a little more sure of himself. He lowered the water bottle and smiled back at John. "Yes, well, I would've stayed over, but it seemed like every available sleeping surface had a drunk person passed out on it."

John chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the lockers. "Yeah. You were pretty sober, weren't you?"

"Yep." Sherlock brought the water bottle back up, pretending to drink while he peeked over it. "So were you?"

"Yeah. I was definitely sober." John's smile was easier now, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. "I'm glad I was. I had a really good time."

"Me, too." Sherlock swallowed and wished he'd had some sort of practice at this sort of interaction before now. _Is this flirting?_

John seemed to know how to continue the conversation on his own. "So, anyway, every Sunday afternoon Tay and Campbell go to their BCA meeting...."

Sherlock frowned at the acronym.

"Black Cultural Association," John clarified. "Campbell's the vice-president this year."

"Oh. Good for him." Not exactly the most exciting thing John had ever said to him, but since Sherlock himself could think of absolutely nothing intelligent to say he decided to let it go.

"You're missing the point, Sherlock. They go to a meeting for two hours every Sunday and I sit around the suite by myself." He cleared his throat and added, "In case you wanted to come over, I mean."

 _Oh. Yes._ "Tomorrow?" 

John nodded. "Their meeting is at two."

Sherlock nodded back at him, feeling far more awkward than he usually did. "I will be there."

"Good. Good. If you want, we can grab lunch together before then."

"All right." 

John smiled at him again and then waved his hand at Sherlock's water bottle. "Hey, give me some of that." 

Sherlock gave it to him and watched him take a gulp. He realized he needed to get away from John again if he was to have any chance of continuing practice without being visibly aroused. As much as he had enjoyed himself last night, the effect John had on him today was proving to be a hindrance to Sherlock's game. He started to walk toward the door to the gym and John fell into step beside him, handing him back his water bottle. 

"Thanks," John said. "So, tomorrow, then. Looking forward to it. But right now I'm going to kick your ass out on that court." He raised both eyebrows in emphasis and jogged out of the locker room ahead of Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

John texted Sherlock the next morning and they arranged to meet for lunch. Usually the team ate together in the dining hall, but John suggested that they grab something from the student center. So. Just the two of them. _Is this a date?_ Sherlock had no idea. They weren't dating. Were they? No, most college students didn't date, Anderson's newly-ended relationship with Sally aside. So what were they doing? Hooking up—that was the common term, though in Sherlock's experience that was not usually something that was planned ahead of time. So. They had hooked up at the party, but now he and John were ... meeting for lunch. That was all. Except John had definitely indicated that he wanted to do more than that afterwards. Sherlock pushed the whole matter to the back of his mind and forced himself to walk across campus as casually as if he were going to practice and not hoping to watch John Watson strip naked later this afternoon.

As soon as he stepped into the student center and saw John waiting for him, it became clear that they would not be on a date together, not unless they wanted to do it under the inquisitive gaze of the dozens of other students who were also here. Over the last few months, Sherlock had slowly become known as a member of the basketball team and it was now common for people he didn't know to say hello and wish him luck in the coming season. But John had a whole different level of campus fame. Even though the team hadn't had a winning record for the past few years, even though John had been injured and sat out most of last season, he still had students trailing after him almost everywhere he went, asking about the team's outlook for the season or trying to take selfies with him. Sherlock hoped he himself never got that popular. He doubted he would; he thought a large part of John's appeal to the general student body was the fact that he didn't look like a star basketball player—he looked like an ordinary short guy with a friendly smile. And shredded abs and a tight little arse and oh, God, how was Sherlock supposed to sit and eat lunch with him now that he knew what his face looked like when he came? 

He managed to slip away while John was talking to a couple of frat brothers wearing matching baseball caps who for some reason wanted to talk about American football. The student center offered a handful of different dining options; Sherlock headed over to the sub shop. His favorite sandwich was the spicy Italian combo but even though the whole idea of kissing was new to him, he knew that wouldn't be a wise choice. He settled for roast beef with bacon and cheese, plus a side salad because the vegetables in the salads were always fresher than the ones they put on the sandwiches. He was filling a cup with Coke from the fountain when John appeared at his side, holding a tray with a grilled cheese sandwich and an apple. 

"Don't let Lestrade see you drinking all that sugar when you're in training." 

Sherlock shrugged. Mainly he ate and drank whatever he wanted when he was in training, and a lot of it. There might be a day when people stopped telling him he needed to bulk up and put on weight, but it hadn't come yet.

They walked to the cashier together and Sherlock grabbed a large, plastic-wrapped chocolate-chip cookie from the display by the checkout counter, then swiped his ID card to pay for his food. The sub shop didn't accept the meal plan but their IDs also acted as debit cards. He caught a glimpse of the card reader's screen as John swiped his own ID and saw the amount of money left in John's account. Maybe he should've offered to pay. But it had been John's idea to eat here and anyway this wasn't a date. 

Sherlock led the way to a small table in the corner of the seating area; it wasn't private but it was the best option available in such a public space. John pulled his refillable water bottle from the pocket of his hoodie before he sat down and Sherlock wondered if he was drinking it to avoid sugar or because it didn't cost him anything to fill it up. He'd never really known anyone who had to worry about money. Everyone at his prep school had been very well-off or they never would've been able to afford the tuition. 

He ended up splitting his cookie with John, who made no objection to consuming the extra sugar. Sherlock just wanted to get out of the student center as quickly as possible; they'd already been interrupted three times by people asking how their first practice had gone. Plus, if they both ate the same thing, they would have the same taste in their mouths when they kissed. When they kissed. He realized he was staring at John's tongue as he licked crumbs off his lips and made himself look away.

John stood up and started to gather up the remnants of their meal. He cleared the whole table, stacking both trays and carrying them over to the bin—that was definitely something someone would do on a date, right? Or maybe John was just being polite, or maybe he thought Sherlock was more of a slob than he was, which was a little bit true. _Stop thinking and just enjoy it._ Good advice: too bad he didn't know how to follow it. He knew in basketball that over-thinking his play often led to mistakes and turnovers, but since Friday night he hadn't been able to stop analyzing whatever it was that was now happening between him and John.

As they walked back to John's suite together, it was hard for Sherlock to believe that everyone who saw them couldn't tell immediately what they were about to do, which was ridiculous because he walked around campus with his teammates all the time. He'd gone to breakfast with Noah and Jenkins and Brez this morning; normally Anderson would've joined them but he'd refused to leave his room. As far as Sherlock could tell he'd spent the last twenty-four hours curled up in bed sending text messages to Sally, who never answered; Sherlock almost felt sorry for him.

They made it back to John's building without incident; a couple of people waved hello but no one seemed to notice anything unusual. Once inside the suite, John checked to make sure that Tay and Campbell were gone while Sherlock stood in the kitchen and wondered if he should brush his teeth; he'd spent the night on John's sofa so often that he'd left a toothbrush in the drawer by the sink. 

"It's just us," John confirmed, pushing the door to Tay's room all the way open to make sure. "You want—you want to stay out here in the living room, or—?" He glanced toward his bedroom and then back at Sherlock, who shrugged. _Is it normal to feel this awkward before a second ... encounter?_ Not a date.

"The bedroom," John decided. "If you want, I mean—"

"Yes. I do." Sherlock took a deep breath and then grinned at John. "That is why I'm here. Otherwise I'd be in the gym." If he pretended he was confident maybe he would start to feel that way.

John laughed and nodded. "I should be studying. My mid-term grades were not outstanding, and I don't think I'm going to get as much leeway with assignments as I did as an undergrad now that the season's started. Kind of sucks."

"You want me to go?" Sherlock asked, hoping he knew the answer. 

"God, no. I'm not failing any of my classes yet. Come here." He took two steps toward Sherlock and Sherlock met him in the middle of the hallway and then they were kissing again. It was even better than he remembered, now that he wasn't taken completely by surprise as he had been the night of the party. John pressed his whole body up against Sherlock's and reached up to put his arms around his shoulders, then broke off the kiss. "Goddamn it, Sherlock, you are too tall."

"I'm really not," Sherlock said, because compared to most of the guys they knew he wasn't very tall; John was just very short. 

"Yeah, I know. I'm just not used to kissing a guy. But I like it—I like how you're not soft against me." He pressed himself against Sherlock from groin to shoulders and Sherlock groaned and let himself slump, minimizing the height difference.

This time he was the one who broke off the kiss. "Bed," he managed to say, not caring if it was too forward. Bending down like this wasn't very comfortable and he wanted to feel more of John; he wanted to roll around and end up on top of him and—"Bed," he repeated, and shoved John toward his room.

John let himself be shoved, stumbling over the threshold into the bedroom. "Close the door," he panted. The bedroom doors didn't have locks, but they had at least two hours before the others would be back, and there would be no reason for Tay or Campbell to come into John's room even if they did come home early.

Sherlock kicked the door shut and paused, watching as John pulled both his hoodie and t-shirt over his head and tossed them to the floor. Last time John hadn't even taken off any of his clothes at all. Sherlock felt his heart rate speed up and his breathing quicken, changes he was accustomed to when he was playing ball but that were new and unexpected in this context. 

"Come here," John said, and Sherlock obeyed, thinking he should be taking his clothes off, too, but when he reached John where he stood next to the bed John took care of that for him: he pushed Sherlock's zippered sweatshirt off his shoulders and then slipped his hands beneath Sherlock's t-shirt. Sherlock squirmed until the sweatshirt fell to the ground and then pulled the t-shirt over his head. John's hands followed the shirt up his torso, then slipped along his neck and into his hair, twirling and tugging. Sherlock lowered his mouth to John's and thought about what a mess his hair would be after this, then realized he didn't care at all. It was hard to form complete sentences this close to John, but he managed to mumble against his mouth, "I want—I want."

"Okay, what? Anything," John said, and proceeded to kiss Sherlock's face—not his lips but his jawline and cheekbone and ear. That wasn't— _why is that so good? How are there still so many things I don't know about?_ He put his hands on John, on the sides of his torso, where his ribs were layered in muscle and warm, soft skin. He drew his fingers across John's stomach and up his chest, feeling the brush of hair too light and fine to see. John sighed and tipped his head back and Sherlock kept going, slipping palms over his nipples and fingers along his collarbone, the right side smooth, the left crossed by the small scar from his injury last year. The first time he'd seen it, he'd never imagined he'd be allowed to touch it; he'd thought quietly admiring John from a distance was the best his life could offer. He settled his hands on John's shoulders and exhaled; the nervousness he'd been feeling had evaporated, replaced by lust and eagerness. Anything, John had said. Anything he wanted. Sherlock had no idea what he wanted; since Friday night he'd been out of his depth, following John's lead. But maybe he could .... He ran his hands back down John's chest until he reached the waistband of his jeans, tugged at the button on his fly, glanced up to gauge John's reaction and then dropped to his knees.

"Whoa, all right. Didn't expect you to pick that," John said, and Sherlock would have thought he was being laughed at, but he could see the astonishment and desire in John's face. 

Sherlock undid the button and looked up again and John nodded and then scrambled to shove his jeans and underwear down. Sherlock sat back on his heels for a moment, feeling his own cock thicken inside his pants. John toed off his shoes and kicked his clothes to the side, then straightened up in front of Sherlock. His cock was at the perfect height, jutting out from a snarl of thick blond hair toward Sherlock. 

Sherlock squared his shoulders. He'd never done this to anyone else but he was more than willing to try. He tipped his head forward and gave a tentative lick: sweat and musk and a stray hair that he pushed away with his tongue. _I can do this. No, I want to do this._ It wasn't the best taste he'd ever had in his mouth, but it was John, and he wanted everything that was John. He opened his mouth and took John in, trying to replicate what others had done to him—what had felt the best? He couldn't remember—it was just a blur of people and faces and no one else was ever anything like John. 

He could feel John's hands winding through his hair, gentle at first and then pulling in response to Sherlock's movements. He seemed to react more when Sherlock sucked and tightened his mouth around him, so he tried to do that as much as he could. It took a couple of attempts before he could take him in all the way, but Sherlock knew how good that felt, and hearing John's groans change in pitch made it worth the trouble of figuring out how to relax his throat so he didn't gag. After a couple of minutes John's hands grew more desperate, ranging back and forth between Sherlock's hair and his shoulders, pulling him close and then pushing him away as he started to rock against Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock held himself still and let John do as he pleased. The steady stream of curses he'd been chanting grew more frantic, and Sherlock tightened his mouth again and wrapped one arm around John's waist and then other around his thighs, trying to let John know that he didn't need to pull away. It was still a shock when John suddenly stopped moving and Sherlock's mouth filled all at once: thick and salty and not particularly tasty but tolerable and definitely worthwhile. When he was sure John was finished he leaned back and quickly swallowed, wiping at his mouth in what he hoped was a dignified manner. 

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock." John stumbled back a few steps until his legs hit his bed and he dropped down to sit on it. "Oh my God, you are so good at that. So good."

Sherlock grinned in spite of himself and stood up. He was achingly hard himself; it had been all he could do not to touch himself already but he was afraid if he did he wouldn't be able to focus on John. He stepped out of his shoes and then pushed his trousers down, feeling awkward and gangly next to John's compact, perfectly muscled body.

"Yeah, Sherlock. Yeah, let me." John stood up again and stepped toward him and Sherlock shivered in anticipation. He let John peel his pants off and toss them to merge with the pile of discarded clothes. John looked down at him and then drew his left hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh. It took a conscious effort for Sherlock not to shudder and curl in on himself. In all the times he'd gotten off while other people knelt in front of him, no one had ever touched him like that. He'd never even stripped out of his clothes before; the only times he'd been naked in front of others were when he showered after games, and then everyone either kept their eyes on themselves or horsed around flicking each other with towels and trading random slurs.

John cleared his throat and took a step backward, keeping his hand on Sherlock's hip, warm and solid. "Just so you know, I've never actually done this to another guy before. I want to, but I just thought you should know in case I'm really bad at it."

Sherlock shrugged. It was really hard to focus with John standing so close and the taste of come still on his tongue. "It's okay. That was my first time, too."

John's eyes widened. "You sure seemed to know what you were doing."

He shrugged again. "I've had it done to me plenty of times."

"By other guys?"

"Guys, girls. Probably more guys than girls, I'd guess."

"But you never did it back to anyone else?"

"No." Maybe he wasn't supposed to admit that; maybe it made him look selfish or something, but he'd just sucked John off so John really couldn't hold it against him, could he? He let his fingers drift across his own hard cock and tried to be patient. _John's mouth._

"Okay." John nodded. "So you're bisexual, too?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm mostly just attracted to men." He squinted down at John and tried to figure out if it really mattered. "Actually, I'm mostly just attracted to you," he said, and then immediately regretted it. _Too needy. Going to scare him off._

It didn't scare him off. "God, I'm lucky," John said, and leaned in towards Sherlock again, tilting his head up for another kiss, rough and panting. Naked bodies pressed together: it was far too much sensation. Sherlock didn't know how anyone could survive such stimulation on a regular basis. His cock throbbed and twitched against John's hip and John slid his hand around it without breaking the kiss. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to hang on. In games he knew how to distance himself from the emotion of key moments, but now— _fuck_. He pulled back and gasped John's name.

John took the hint and dropped to his knees. He might not have done this before but he didn't hesitate; he held Sherlock still and swallowed him down. Sherlock groaned and rocked forward, trying to stay balanced enough not to fall into John.

He was already so close to the edge it was all he could do not to come immediately. He settled his hands on John's shoulders, marveling at how the skin-to-skin contact resonated throughout his whole body. 

John didn't move his head much but he used his tongue and his tongue was very, very good. And his hands, his hands were everywhere, all at once it seemed. The climax Sherlock was barreling towards was promising to be more intense than anything he'd ever experienced. He should warn John—he knew he should. He tightened his hands on John's shoulders, feeling the smooth pull of muscle beneath skin. "John. Close," he managed to say, and John sucked him in even farther. 

Sherlock found himself perched on the edge but unable to let himself tip over. It wasn't for fear of John's reaction—the sounds John was making around his cock were definitely encouraging—but it was all just so much. So much and oh, oh, he wanted to, how had he not come already? So much, so much. He could feel himself trembling and then John's hands were on him, one at the base of his cock and one farther back, stroking. Those small, skillful hands that were so certain and steady on the court were just as capable now and Sherlock finally, finally let himself go. He tightened his hands around John's shoulders and curled forward, stomach brushing the top of John's head. John pulled him even closer and held him still, hands on his arse, while Sherlock shuddered, feeling the press of John's teeth against his cock as he spasmed against them. 

John opened his mouth to let Sherlock slide out but didn't let go of his arse; instead he leaned his cheek against Sherlock's thigh and inhaled. "Fuck," he whispered, and then dropped his left hand down between his own legs. Sherlock's view was obstructed by John's head, but he could see him give himself a few fast, firm strokes, then he pressed his face hard into Sherlock's groin. Sherlock felt a rush of hot breath and then a quick lick along the side of his softening cock before John leaned back on his heels and Sherlock watched him come again, not as forcefully or for as long as he had before but this time Sherlock could see his face. He wanted to reach out and touch John's cheek, run his fingers over the creases that had formed when he squeezed his eyes shut, but instead he made a conscious effort to unclench his muscles and step back. He staggered over to John's bed and collapsed onto his stomach. 

A moment later and John followed. "Move over." 

Sherlock groaned and squirmed closer to the wall and John plopped down on the mattress next to him, slinging an arm and a leg over Sherlock's back and thigh. John was damp with sweat but so was Sherlock; they smelled like a locker room if locker rooms were full of guys having sex. _Oh God, I shouldn't have thought that._ He turned his head toward John and pressed his mouth against John's neck and started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" John asked and flicked him hard on the back of his shoulder. "I did a good job, don't try to tell me I didn't."

"You did." Sherlock brought his hand up to cover John's so he couldn't hit him again. "Nothing's funny, I just—does it always feel like that?"

"What? Sherlock, you said you'd done that before lots of times."

"Yes, but not like that. Not with, kissing and touching and stuff."

John rolled onto his side so he wasn't sprawled on Sherlock anymore but they could see each other's faces. "You've gotten blow jobs but never kissed or touched anyone. What the hell kind of prep school did you go to?"

Sherlock shrugged the shoulder closest to John and closed his eyes. "There was never anyone I wanted to kiss." He kept his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see John's reaction to such a sappy statement. Clearly the endorphins flooding his body were affecting his intellect, making him say things he normally wouldn't.

"Shit, you are such a flirt," John said, and shifted on the bed next to him.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John's face only inches from his. He turned so he was lying on his side as well. "I am not a flirt," he said.

"Yeah, you are." John lunged forward and started kissing him again. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's biceps and kissed him back, then rolled so he was on top of John. He broke off the kiss so he could watch John's reaction: a pleased grin, followed by a low growl. Sherlock lowered his head to swallow that growl, and John pushed back against him so they both ended up on their sides once more, with Sherlock's back touching the wall. 

There wasn't a lot of room to maneuver on the narrow bed, but that just meant they were never very far apart. He wriggled his body along the length of John's. "You owe me an orgasm," he said.

"Do I? Are we keeping score?"

"Of course," Sherlock said.

John laughed and returned the full-body press. "Flirt," he repeated and then dropped one hand to stroke Sherlock's cock. Sherlock still didn't think what he was doing was flirting, but if it was, he probably should have tried it a long time ago.


	9. Chapter 9

Practice six days a week meant Sherlock and John saw each other a lot but were hardly ever alone. They got very good at sneaking moments together whenever possible: kisses in the locker room after everyone else had left, quick hand jobs in the single bathroom on the third floor of the library, and of course longer explorations in bed whenever their roommates were gone. But Anderson had taken to almost never leaving the dorm unless he had class, and John needed to study quite a bit to keep up in his classes, and there were whole days that went by where Sherlock didn't even get to touch John other than incidental contact on the court. _Intolerable._

They had a free day on Saturday the week before their first game: no practice, no weight room, no mandatory study hall, just a full day to be ordinary college students. Which apparently meant that half the team would gather in John's suite to play video games. Anderson even roused himself enough to join them, going so far as to shower for the occasion, though shaving was seemingly too much to ask. 

"I told you, I'm growing a beard," he said as he walked across campus with Sherlock and Jenkins. 

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. Anderson's fledgling beard was patchy and a lighter color than the hair on his head, and Sherlock thought it made him look more like a disgruntled philosophy student than a college athlete, but if that was how Anderson wanted to deal with getting dumped, then he guessed it wouldn't hurt anyone. Sherlock just wished he didn't have to look at it every day. At least the fact that Anderson had emerged from his Sally-less stupor for long enough to join them meant there was the possibility Sherlock and John could find some excuse to slip back to Sherlock's room later on. Too bad he couldn't kick Anderson out of the room whenever he wanted to have sex without revealing whom he wanted to have sex with. Even without discussing it, it was obvious that John had no more desire to take their relationship public than Sherlock did.

John, Tay and Campbell were already deep into a game of _Halo_ when Sherlock and the others arrived, but it wasn't long before they got tired of shooting each other and started switching to other games, including a couple of vicious rounds of _Just Dance_. John cut that short for the sake of team camaraderie and they moved on to _Mario Kart_ , which held everyone's attention for over an hour. Sherlock had never had a gaming system at home—Mum and Dad probably would've been thrilled to buy him one, now that he thought about it—but he'd played quite a bit over the years at Hartswood. Intellectually, he thought the activity a mind-numbing waste of time, but when someone handed him a controller he was too competitive to say no to the challenge. 

They'd just started a new round—Sherlock, Anderson, Tay and Jenkins racing against each other—when John suddenly announced, "All right, this is fun and all, but I need to study. I'm behind on my stats and my biochem and we haven't even had a game yet. I'm so screwed." He stood up from the sofa and stretched; Sherlock tried to focus on the game he was playing and not on the strip of skin and the edge of John's briefs that were revealed when he raised his arms. Except then John reached over and grabbed the Wii remote away from him. 

"What the hell? I was ahead!" Sherlock lunged to retrieve the controller but Campbell had already picked it up and jumped into the game. 

"You're going to help make sure I don't fail my classes, Sherlock. Unless you want Anderson to start at point."

"Hey!" Anderson protested but John ignored him and grabbed Sherlock's wrist to try to haul him up from his chair. For a moment he resisted but then he let himself be dragged down the hall.

John closed the bedroom door behind them and turned to Sherlock. "How quiet can you be?"

"Oh, thank God. I was afraid you actually wanted to study."

"Well, I guess we could call it biochemistry if we wanted to," John said. "But seriously, you really need to be quiet."

Sherlock frowned. "Me? I have complete control over all my vocalizations."

"Right." John pushed his jeans and underwear down in a single motion and Sherlock caught himself before he could make a grunt of approval. He narrowed his eyes and then quickly stripped off his clothes, partly because he wanted to watch John try to repress his own sounds and partly because if there was one thing he'd learned in the past few weeks it was that everything felt far more intense when he was naked.

"What do you want to do?" John gave himself a couple of quick pulls as he asked; Sherlock wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

"Suck each other off. It's the fastest." It was also Sherlock's favorite thing to do, although rubbing naked against each other while one of them stroked them both also had its appeal. Sherlock's hands were bigger but John had the better technique. 

"All right. Did you want to try both at once again?"

"Er—"

"Nah, me neither. That was really uncomfortable. You're like a giraffe."

"No, you're like a Chihuahua."

"A Chihuahua?"

"Yep. A little yippy dog. Always nipping around my heels." He stepped toward John and gave him a playful shove toward the bed. John growled and grabbed him by both arms and threw himself backwards, pulling Sherlock with him to land on top of the tangle of sheets and blankets on his unmade bed.

"I'll give you some nipping." He sank his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder hard enough to sting; Sherlock flinched and shivered and then glanced down to make sure the mark would be covered by his shirt. 

"Sorry." John wiped at the wet, red mark on Sherlock's shoulder, then ran his fingers lightly back and forth a few times as if to soothe it.

"It's okay." Sherlock lowered his own mouth to John's ear and tugged at the lobe, not quite biting. 

John exhaled softly—Sherlock felt it more than heard it—and squirmed beneath him, sliding up the bed until he was half-sitting against the pillows. Sherlock sat back while John wriggled out of his t-shirt and let it fall to the floor next to the bed. "Come on—put those lips of yours to use." 

Sherlock grinned and leaned forward again, on his hands and knees over John, licking and nibbling his way down John's body—jaw, neck, collarbone, nipples, abs—going more slowly than he really wanted to, just to make John wait. He knew they should hurry but a few extra minutes wouldn't make a difference. The guys in the living room would keep playing video games until they got hungry enough to stop for lunch.

John bucked his hips up, hitting Sherlock's chin with his stomach. "Get your mouth on my dick already." 

"So impatient." Sherlock crawled down a few inches lower, letting his lips brush the tip of John's rigid cock. He pulled back for a moment when John tried to thrust toward him, then lunged forward and swallowed him down. Too far: he pulled back immediately and sucked on just the tip, peeking up through the fall of his own hair to watch John's expression. John's mouth fell open and he arched his back, head tipping onto the pillow behind him. He didn't make a sound; Sherlock had to give him credit for that. He wondered if he would be able to be as silent when it was his turn. Not that he thought it would matter if he wasn't—he could hear the guys in the next room, yelling about something that had happened in the game they were playing. 

He shifted on his knees so he was able to drop one hand down to his own cock; just a few strokes, he didn't want to come before John did. John must've realized what he was doing, because he let out the softest of needy groans and slipped his hands into Sherlock's hair, pulling at it in time with Sherlock's movements. Sherlock quickened his pace on both of them and decided he liked it better when John was not trying to be quiet—by now he would normally be panting Sherlock's name.

He was dimly aware that the noise in the rest of the suite had suddenly increased—a race must have ended or maybe a new one had begun. He couldn't believe he and John had wasted all morning playing video games when they could've been in here doing this. 

He could tell John was close. Feeling John's movements grow erratic while trying to hold off his own climax was distracting enough that he didn't even hear the door open, just Tay's voice shouting, "I got a blue shell! Guys! Jenkins was about to win and I—holy shit!"

John's knees came up and hit Sherlock in the chest as they both scrambled apart, John pulling at the blanket that Sherlock knelt on and then covering himself with his hands instead as he shouted, "Get out!" He was yelling at Tay, of course, but for a fraction of a second Sherlock thought John's words were directed at him.

Tay did not get out. He stood in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob, gaping. 

John kicked Sherlock in the thigh, hard, and took advantage of Sherlock's backward tumble to grab the blanket and pull it up to his chest. "Tay, out, now!" John stood up, dragging the blanket with him. Sherlock grabbed at the bedsheet below it, tugging it up to his waist to cover himself, and watched as John chased Tay from the room. Tay retreated quickly once John advanced on him, as if he weren't a foot taller and more than half-again John's weight.

John slammed the door shut and then turned to face Sherlock, wrapping the blanket around his waist. "Fuck," he said.

"Yeah." Sherlock swallowed and then met John's eyes. "I'm guessing you don't want to finish."

"Jesus Christ." John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Get dressed. We need to go talk to Tay before he spreads this everywhere."

From the sudden lack of Wii-related shouting coming from the next room Sherlock assumed they were already too late for that, but he swung his legs out of bed and reached for his shirt. Neither one of them spoke as they pulled their clothes back on; Sherlock just hoped that John's silence was a sign of anger at Tay's interruption rather than regret at what they had been doing. 

He trailed behind as John stalked out into the living room, wondering if he should leave, but then John announced, "Team meeting!" and turned off the television, where a loop of the last race had been replaying without anyone watching it. Sherlock lingered at the edge of the room until John motioned for him to join them. 

There weren't any seats left: Anderson, Jenkins and Campbell were on the sofa, the armchair was stacked with dirty breakfast dishes, and Tay and John had taken the two gaming chairs. After a moment's hesitation Sherlock sat on the floor a few feet away from John, his back to the telly and the coffee table between him and the others. Nearly half the team was here—they were only missing Noah, Brez, Greene and the walk-ons. _Well, if we're going to be outed to the team, I guess it's better that almost everyone will find out at once._

John shifted in his seat and clenched both his fists before taking a deep breath. "Yeah, okay. So I'm guessing Tay already told you all what he just walked in on."

"Sorry, man, but hell yeah I did."

"Dude!" Campbell leaned forward toward John, elbows on his knees. "You were fucking Mary for ages, weren't you? Did you really—" He waved his hand toward Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something—he had no idea what—but Tay cut in before he or John could reply. "They were 100 percent going at it. Totally naked, in bed together. It wasn't just like helping a friend get off cause you're bored." Tay looked around the group and Sherlock was amazed to see the others nodding. He blinked, wondering if he was correct in his interpretation that his teammates thought it would've been perfectly normal for him to suck John's cock as long as he had left his clothes on while doing it.

"Whoa." Jenkins looked back and forth from John to Sherlock. "I'm not too surprised that Holmes likes dick, but Watson...."

"What?" Sherlock didn't think he had any stereotypical gay characteristics; he was a high-level college athlete, for God's sake, and his voice certainly was deeper than that of the average gay man. "What have ever I done to make you think that?"

"Well, to start with, Tay says you just had your mouth around Watson's dick."

"That's not...you said—" Sherlock resisted the impulse to turn to John for help in defending himself. He wasn't sure what John might be thinking right now, but Sherlock knew they hadn't done anything wrong and he wasn't about to offer a denial or an apology.

"Yo, don't worry about it." Campbell waved both hands at Sherlock as if to calm him. "No one cares if you're gay. We're just a little surprised." He frowned. "I mean are you, like, together or was it a one-time thing?"

"It did not look like a one-time thing," Tay said, and Sherlock swallowed in relief that he didn't have to answer that himself. It certainly wasn't a one-time thing, but he and John had never talked about what it actually was.

John glanced over at Sherlock, but didn't meet his gaze. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, a new form of panic suddenly spiraling up through his chest. _This is it. He's going to say he didn't really mean anything by it, that he just wanted to get off and I was convenient._

John took a deep breath, lifted his chin and said, "I haven't said anything because I was trying to avoid...this." He gestured with both hands at everyone who was gathered around staring at him. "But yeah. It wasn't a one-time thing and we are together. At least, I think we are." He bit at his bottom lip and then looked quickly over at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught John's eye and nodded, relief flooding through him. He couldn't quite bring himself to meet everyone else's stares, but he cleared his throat and managed to say, "We haven't really discussed it but it has...progressed over the last few weeks. So yes, I would say we are together." He caught a glimpse of John's expression and couldn't stop himself from blushing and breaking into a grin as well.

"Holy shit," Tay said. "This is serious. I mean—you guys!" He laughed and reached over to smack John on the back. "You have both been really happy lately but I thought it was just from playing ball. This is awesome!" 

John looked just as dazed at Tay's reaction as Sherlock felt. "I, wow. Tay. I've been kind of terrified these last couple weeks, because I didn't know what you guys would all do if you found out."

"What we would do?" Tay said. "What did you think we'd do? We'd be happy for you, of course. What kind of assholes do you think we are?"

Campbell nodded. "Why would it matter to us what you two do? As long as you don't start kissing out on the court every time one of you makes a basket."

"Or trying to kiss us," Jenkins added and elbowed Anderson, who sat next to him, to encourage him to laugh at the joke.

Anderson smiled for a moment then his eyes widened. "Oh, shit." He pointed at Sherlock. "You saw me with Sally that time—"

Sherlock raised both hands and leaned back, away from Anderson, even though the coffee table already distanced them. "God, please don't remind me. I've spent the last month trying to erase the mental image of you sprawled on the bed munching on Sally."

"But, you saw me naked, and you're—"

This was exactly why Sherlock had spent the last few years of his life not telling other people anything about his personal preferences. "Don't be an idiot. You know I can barely stand to be in the same room as you. Why would I want to see you naked?"

Anderson tipped his head as if thinking that over and then nodded. "Good point."

"Dude, good job, going down on Sally," Jenkins said to Anderson. "Isn't eating pussy the best?" 

"Stop it." Campbell punched Jenkins in the arm. "You'll make him sad because he still misses her." 

"Fuck off," Anderson said, and squirmed back into the corner of the sofa, away from everyone.

"See?" Campbell said. "He misses her pussy."

John held up his hands. "Okay, enough. We do not need to discuss Sally's pussy right now."

"Right. Watson's gay now. He doesn't want to talk about pussy. He wants to talk about Sherlock's—" 

"Grow up. I'm not gay, I'm bisexual and I actually don't want to talk about _any_ of it because it's my private life and I want to keep it that way."

"Whoa, sorry, dude. Don't need to get all touchy about it."

"I'm not. It's just—" John looked over at Sherlock and then around at the others. "I'm really glad you guys are cool with it, but that doesn't mean everyone else would be okay. I don't—we don't want it to be some big deal that the whole school finds out about, you know?"

Sherlock nodded. He'd seen stories in the news about athletes who came out and he had no desire to be featured in a news story, not unless it involved winning the league championship and going on to the NCAA tournament in March.

"We have to tell the rest of the team," Tay said. "But we can keep it quiet otherwise, all right?"

"Okay," John said, and looked to Sherlock for agreement.

Sherlock thought for a moment— _there's going to be someone who objects, I know there will be_ —and then nodded as well. "Don't tell Lestrade or the other coaches, though."

"Lestrade will be cool with it," Tay said.

"Probably," John said. "But some of the college administration would probably not approve, and if they found out he knew...."

Sherlock had just wanted to keep the number of people who knew to a minimum, but John's reasoning was sound.

"All right," Tay agreed. "We can keep quiet. But I do have one question for the two of you."

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, wondering what horribly intrusive information Tay wanted to know.

Tay glanced from John to Sherlock and then at the television. "You think you can beat me and Campbell on Rainbow Road?"

John laughed and Sherlock joined in, accepting the controller that Tay offered him. _It could've gone worse._ While he agreed with John and would much rather keep his personal life as private as possible, at least their teammates had taken the revelation in stride. Even Anderson seemed to have overcome his usual idiocy once he realized Sherlock had no reason to be interested in him. And more importantly, Sherlock now knew that John felt the same way that he did. Their activities together over the past few weeks went beyond just hooking up; he and John were actually in a real relationship.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have put the fictional College of St. Bartholomew's into the real-life Division II sports conference named the Northeast-10. All the teams named in this story other than Barts or Appledore are real teams in the conference. None of the games or results or anything are a reflection of those real-life teams, I just didn't want to make up a whole bunch of fake college names. Also, even though it's called the "Northeast-10," it has like 14 or 15 teams in it so I figured a couple more wouldn't hurt.

The team's first game was on a Friday evening, part of a two-day, season-opening tournament hosted at the College of St. Rose in Albany, only an hour's drive from Barts. Which meant that rather than spending the day traveling to the tournament, the players were expected to go to their classes and generally be seen around campus on Friday. The words "good impression" and "representatives of the team" had been bandied about, not just by Lestrade and his coaching staff but by the older team members as well. Sherlock had grimaced his way through the inspirational breakfast speeches and then slipped off to spend the day in the biology lab. He wasn't taking any science classes, but he'd registered for chemistry for the spring semester and Molly had been letting him hang around in the lab with her ever since he'd helped her with her genetics homework one night at tutoring.

The lab was empty when he got there, so he played with one of the microscopes, trying to figure out what was on a batch of unlabeled slides someone had left in one of the cupboards. Eventually Molly showed up, as he'd known she would; he just needed to convince her that she should join him in testing out some of the chemicals in the locked cabinets rather than wasting time writing up lab reports for her classes.

"Oh, it's game day, isn't it?" Molly said when she saw him. "I like the suit."

"Thanks," he replied, moving to straighten the lapels before he realized he was doing it. "I'm supposed to dress up so I look like an ambassador for the team or some such drivel."

"Shouldn't you be wearing a tie?"

He sniffed. "Tay convinced half the team to wear bowties, but Lestrade doesn't wear a tie, so why should I? I look good like this."

"You do look good," she said. "You could take up modeling if the basketball thing doesn't work out."

"I don't plan to pursue a career in sports, Molly. Something in the sciences seems more likely." He nodded at the equipment around them and then realized she hadn't really been suggesting a career move. He swallowed and started to explain. "I don't know if anyone told you, but I, er, John and I—"

She waved her hand at him. "Oh, don't worry, Sherlock. You do look good in that suit but I know where I stand. Can't expect to compete with John Watson now, can I?"

"Molly, I—" He cut himself off, aware that what he wanted to say would not be appreciated. _I am really, really glad we didn't hook up that night at the party._

She shook her head at him and pulled out an overflowing notebook from her backpack. He turned back to the microscope, happy to drop the subject, but once she had spread out her notes on the bench next to him she asked, "So, things are going all right then? With you and John?"

He looked up from the microscope and blinked at her. "Please tell me you are not about to offer me relationship advice."

She blushed bright red and began to stammer. "I didn't mean.... I don't mean things between the two of you, that's none of my business and anyway it's a little soon for you to be having problems and—" She giggled and then took a deep breath and collected herself. "I just didn't know if there'd been problems with the rest of the team since they found out."

Sherlock pursed his lips and lowered his head to the microscope again. "It hasn't been too bad. Few less chest-bumps after either of us hits a shot, which is fine with me. Brez hates us both now, but he's the only one."

"What? Sherlock-" Molly scooted her stool back and turned to face him.

He shrugged without looking away from the slide. "Maybe he doesn't hate us personally, but he thinks we're sinners who are going to hell and doesn't want to associate with us, so it's really the same thing."

"That—that's not right. What does Coach Lestrade say about it?"

"Hmm. Lestrade's probably noticed that Brez isn't interacting with either of us more than he has to, considering we're the ones who pass the ball to him most of the time, but since Lestrade doesn't actually know about John and me...."

"Oh, he doesn't?"

"Nope." Sherlock pushed himself back from the lab bench and crossed his arms, looking at Molly. "Because we're not announcing it to everyone. How did you find out, anyway?"

Molly pushed her hair back behind her ear. "Um, that night at the party? When you and I were maybe going to—and then John grabbed you away."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Did Mary tell you?" He was certain she'd encouraged John to make the first move that night, though John had never admitted that.

"No, it was pretty obvious. I probably should've seen it earlier."

He frowned. "None of the guys on the team had any idea until Tay caught us in John's bedroom, and they spend much more time around us than you."

Molly shrugged. "They're guys? College guys? Dumb as rocks, you know. No offense."

He stared at her. "You're saying all my teammates are as dumb as rocks?"

"No, I'm saying all guys your age are as dumb as rocks—it has nothing to do with being an athlete. Even the intelligent ones are still idiots." She raised her eyebrows at him and then went back to her notebook.

She spent most of the morning working on her boring lab write-ups, but Sherlock picked the lock on three of the cabinets and found plenty of ways to amuse himself. Molly insisted he clean everything up before they left, though he did manage to tuck an unwashed petri dish away in a drawer to see what kinds of mold it would grow before the end of the semester.

He had to change into his uniform and warm-up outfit before they left for the tournament, which just illustrated how ridiculous the rule about dressing up on game day was, even if he had received quite a few compliments on his clothes. When the team met for lunch he'd gotten a good look at John in his suit—it wasn't as tailored as Sherlock's, but the way the jacket moved across his shoulders made Sherlock want to grab him by his tie and haul him across the table for a kiss. He didn't, of course; he just finished off his plate of pasta and then went back for seconds. John had left for class by the time Sherlock returned to the table so Sherlock spent the rest of the meal talking to his teammates about the tournament and tonight's game, feeling the excitement and anticipation grow until it overtook the memory of the lust he'd felt for John and his suit. 

Those feelings had multiplied even further by the time they arrived at St. Rose that evening. Sherlock was practically vibrating with his desire to play and show everyone how good he was. How good _they_ were: though this weekend's games wouldn't count in Barts' conference record, they would give a good indication of how the rest of the year might go. All four teams in the tournament were part of the Northeast-10 Conference and would be playing each other at least once again later in the season.

They were scheduled to play in the second game, against the home team, but they got there early enough to watch the first one, between LeMoyne College and Appledore. The winners tonight would face each other tomorrow for the tournament championship while the losers played in a consolation game. 

Sherlock had competed in front of larger crowds when Hartswood had gone to the state playoffs, but the stands today were still fairly crowded. They managed to find an empty section of bleachers big enough for the whole team to sit together. It was early in the first half still, but Appledore was already ahead. As the Barts' team sorted themselves into their seats, Appledore's point guard made a sneaky little move that possibly should've gotten him called for a foul but instead ended up getting two more points for his team.

"Ah, Jesus." John scooted up closer to Sherlock than he usually sat in public. "At least last year when I thought I would never play again I also thought I'd never have to see Moriarty again, either."

Sherlock looked out onto the court. Moriarty: that was the point guard's name. Sherlock had only heard second-hand accounts of how John had been injured last year—John himself never mentioned it—but everyone agreed that although Moriarty might not have been the one who'd knocked John down and given him the broken collarbone and wrist and torn rotator cuff, Sebastian Moran, the player who'd done it, had been acting on Moriarty's orders. Moran had been issued a flagrant foul and had to sit out the rest of the game; John had needed surgery and missed the whole season. _But, if that hadn't happened then John would've graduated last year and we never would've even met._

Moran was on the bench at the moment, so Sherlock could only see him from behind, but even sitting down he could tell that he had to have ten inches and at least 75 pounds on John. Sherlock grimaced and looked back out at the court, finding Moriarty. Unlike Moran, he wasn't a very imposing-looking player. He was a little taller than John but scrawnier, graceful but not very powerful physically. Plus he was definitely going to start going bald in a few years. Sherlock grinned and ran his hand through his own hair, then glanced over at John, who had shifted on the seat to the point that he was practically huddling into the bleacher behind him. _He's scared. Just from the sight of Moriarty._

Sherlock wanted to reassure John but he didn't know how to do that, especially since John would no doubt deny being afraid if he mentioned it, so he tried to distract him instead. He couldn't really avoid the topic of basketball, of course, so he started trying to predict each play the teams on the floor would run. It wasn't really too difficult—they'd been watching footage of the other teams in the tournament all week—but as the game went on and it became clear that LeMoyne was no match for the Appledore team, Sherlock found himself less and less interested in the game. John seemed too tense to be as impressed as he usually was by Sherlock's deductions and Sherlock was relieved when Lestrade finally herded the whole team out of the stands so they could get ready for their game. At least they didn't have to play Appledore tonight, though the possibility that they would face off against them tomorrow was certainly very real.

Lestrade led them to a small lounge down the hall from the gymnasium; there were plenty of chairs, but Sherlock found a spot on the floor so he could stretch out while Lestrade talked. He had his own routine for focusing before a game that had served him well up until now and he saw no reason to change it. Lestrade wouldn't let him wear headphones while he gave his little speech, but Sherlock closed his eyes and let the coach's voice fade. He brought up an image of the basketball court and pictured himself in the midst of the game, adding as much detail as he could: the squeak of his shoes on the hardwood, the hum and buzz of the crowd around him, the shouts of his teammates as they dribbled and passed, the heft and weight and friction of the ball as he caught it and then sent it spinning toward the basket. By the time Lestrade finally finished talking, Sherlock had run through a good portion of the game they were about to play. He knew it wouldn't happen exactly the way he imagined it, but mentally rehearsing every move meant that by the time he actually stepped onto the court his body was already primed to play.

He gave a final stretch and opened his eyes and sat up. Lestrade had ceded the floor to John, who launched into a very enthusiastic pep talk, his earlier trepidation seemingly vanished. But Sherlock didn't hear what he was saying any more than he had heard Lestrade's speech; he couldn't look away from John, but not for any of the usual reasons. _What the hell?_ John had taken off his warm-up hoodie; he wore his uniform beneath it, the black shirt with his number "1" in purple below the team's name. But while his right arm was bare beneath the sleeveless jersey, on his left side he wore a shoulder brace. Sherlock narrowed his eyes to examine it: black, to match the uniform, and not an actual brace. It was a compression sleeve, a Spandex-blend similar to what a number of players wore over the elbows of their shooting arms, claiming it helped their performance and prevented injury. Sherlock had doubts as to their efficacy—he thought they were more of a fashion statement for most college players—but the real question was why John was suddenly wearing one. If he needed to have his shoulder protected then he should've been wearing it before now. 

Sherlock thought back through nearly every encounter he and John had had over the past few months, both on and off the court, trying to recall John ever giving any indication that his shoulder bothered him. Other than a tendency to be overprotective of that side when he got shoved around in practice, there was nothing that Sherlock could recall. He watched carefully as John finished up his short rallying speech to the team. He was moving easily, even jumping around as he got the rest of the players pumped up in anticipation of the game—definitely no signs of any pain or discomfort.

They headed out into the hallway, where they could hear the end of the LeMoyne/Appledore game but had room to spread out and stretch before they had to be on the court themselves. Sherlock and John ended up side by side, of course. They'd been gravitating toward each other since September, and now most of the team seemed to leave space for them together, whether consciously or not. Sherlock nodded at John's sleeve. "Shoulder bothering you today?"

"Nah, I just figured it would be a good precaution."

"Hmm." Sherlock reached his right arm up over his head and pulled his elbow toward his left shoulder. John mirrored him in the stretch, showing no hesitation in moving his shoulder. Just as Sherlock had thought. "You're worried because of Appledore, aren't you?"

"What? No, don't be ridiculous. We're not even playing them today." John dropped his arms back down and rolled his neck and shoulders.

Sherlock quirked his lips and switched his arms to stretch the other side. The problem was obvious, but if John wanted to pretend that the thought of playing Moriarty and his team didn't rattle him, then Sherlock wasn't going to keep pointing it out. For a split second the look he'd seen on John's face was one that he recognized all too well, and he did not want John to start resenting it when he voiced his deductions.

The first game ended—Appledore won by over twenty points—and then Barts and St. Rose took to the court to warm up. Sherlock watched John as they ran through their shooting and passing drills, but the apprehension he'd shown earlier while watching Moriarty and Moran had vanished and he seemed as at ease on the court as he usually was, encouraging everyone else while showing off his own skills. Sherlock let himself relax as well, channeling his growing excitement for the upcoming game into his play. 

Sherlock started the game. He knew he was going to—Lestrade had decided on the lineup earlier in the week—but he hadn't realized how important it was to him until he heard his name announced over the speaker system, echoing through the mostly-full gymnasium. He jogged out onto the court amidst cheers and high-fives from the rest of the team, joining the other starters: John, Campbell, Jenkins and Tay. A small lineup, other than Tay, but experienced; Sherlock was the only freshman.

Barts scored the first two points of the game. Tay got control of the jump ball and tipped it to John, who ran the play perfectly. He passed the ball to Campbell, who faked a shot before driving in to hit a short jumper. St. Rose immediately answered with two points of their own, but Sherlock barely minded. He'd forgotten how invigorating it felt to play a real game in a packed gymnasium. He glanced over at the Barts' cheerleaders and caught Mary's eye; she gave him a wave of her pom-pom and he grinned and hustled back down the court.

He got into position on defense, then lunged for the ball as St. Rose made a pass. He'd led his team at Hartswood in steals for the last two years, but though his fingers grazed leather this time, he misjudged it and missed the ball. The player he'd been guarding got it instead and took the open shot. The shout from the crowd was much louder this time; despite the pocket of Barts' students and fans who sat behind the bench, the crowd was mostly there for the home team.

Sherlock tried to shake it off. He'd missed a steal that he probably shouldn't have tried for in the first place, but he'd never had control of the ball so it didn't even count as a turnover. Barts scored three more baskets—another from Campbell, then one from Tay and then a beautiful shot from John, just short of the three-point arc. St. Rose answered every one, though, and hit a three-point shot as well. The next time Sherlock got the ball, he tried for a three, but missed—not a bad shot, just not quite enough arc. 

He continued to miss as the game got underway. The others passed him the ball willingly enough—they all knew he could score—but he just couldn't make a shot today. And the team needed him to. John and the others scored, but not enough; St. Rose matched them point for point and then started to creep ahead. 

It wasn't too much of a surprise when Lestrade pulled him out of the game after his fifth missed shot; he hadn't scored any points and had been called for a foul the second time he tried for a steal. Anderson subbed in for him; as he passed Sherlock to take the court he punched him in the shoulder and said, "Don't worry about it. It's just freshman nerves. Everyone gets them their first game."

 _Not helpful._ Sherlock flopped down on the bench. He was too upset with himself to even care if the glare he earned from Brez was for his poor playing or just his general existence. He chugged half a water bottle and wiped at his mouth and watched Anderson score two points the first time he got the ball. It didn't turn the game in their favor. A few minutes later Lestrade replaced Jenkins with Brez, and then tried Noah instead of Campbell, but even though that gave them a much taller line-up, it didn't help the score. Brez dunked the ball but got called for a travel, Anderson didn't contribute beyond his first two points, and St. Rose began to double-team John as soon as he crossed mid-court with the ball. Which was smart of them, since with 11 points and 3 assists, John was responsible for the bulk of the team's first-half scoring. 

Lestrade kept Sherlock benched for almost ten minutes, then finally put him back in for the last two minutes of the half. They were behind by twelve points by then. On his second trip down the court Sherlock got the ball from John and tried a shot. It would've gone in but a St. Rose player jostled him as he released the ball. It was a clear foul, and Sherlock went to the line for two free shots. Everything—the crowd, the players lined up to rebound, the opposing team's cheerleaders—faded into the background as he blocked out all but the feel of the ball in his hands and the slick press of the floor beneath his feet. His body knew how to do this, so he allowed it take over: one bounce to bring the ball to his chest, let his hands turn it until the seams sat precisely as they should. A two-second pause and then a slight bend of his knees. The right hand shooting, the left one guiding, power coming from his legs and torso, fingers pointing toward the goal as the ball left his hands. He could see it spin as it arced toward the basket, could hear the crowd now, the opposing team supporters chanting, then a split second of silence as the ball hit the backboard and bounced through the hoop. A perfect foul shot, just as he had rehearsed so often both in practice and in his mind.

He made his second shot, as well. Two points: it wasn't going to turn the game, but it still felt good. There was less than a minute left in the half, though, and Sherlock didn't touch the ball again before the halftime buzzer sounded.

He was one of the first players into the locker room. There was plenty of space for the whole team to gather while Lestrade reviewed what they needed to change for the second half, but Sherlock wedged himself into a spot in the corner. This way he could face Lestrade and look like he was paying attention without really having to do so. 

The other players shuffled in around him, finding spots on the ground or in the handful of folding chairs that were scattered around, everyone's attitude much more somber than it had been before the game. Except for John, who sat on the bench in the middle of the room, hands on his knees, feet bouncing. "Come on, guys, it's only ten points! We can do this!"

Lestrade joined the group, coming to a halt in front of the bench. He looked down at John for a moment, then turned his head and shouted over his shoulder. "Stamford!"

"Yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming." Stamford appeared from around the corner, carrying his black trainer's bag. "He looked all right to me on the court," he said to Lestrade, and then motioned at John. "Get that shirt off and let me take a look."

"It's fine." John rolled his shoulder back and forth and shrugged to demonstrate.

"Nope," Lestrade said, and crossed his arms. "If you're going to decide you suddenly need a sleeve then we're going to keep an eye on it. Hurry up, you're holding the whole team up." 

Stamford had already pulled an ice pack from his kit; he tossed it back and forth between his hands, lightly enough so as not to activate it. John scowled and pulled his shirt over his head and then tugged off the compression sleeve. Sherlock was aware of half the team swiveling to look at him, ready to watch his reaction to a shirtless John. He lowered his head, looking at the floor between his own feet instead, wanting to know if John's shoulder was in fact all right but not willing to give the rest of the team the satisfaction of seeing him stare. He closed his eyes and tried to start reviewing the mistakes he'd made in the first half, but he couldn't focus until he heard Stamford's verdict.

"Yeah, you're good, John. No inflammation, both sides are symmetrical. God, that sleeve made you sweat even more. Anyone else need an icepack?"

Sherlock kept his head down and tried to think about basketball. _John is fine, and playing well. I'm the one who's having problems._ The two foul shots he'd made had helped, but they were not enough to get him all the way back into the right mindset to play, assuming Lestrade even put him in the game again. He sighed and let just enough of Lestrade's words filter through his consciousness to ensure he didn't miss any possibly useful advice. Unlikely. 

Most of what Lestrade had to say was obvious. "Jenkins, stop trying to power past number 40, you can't do it. Brez, plant your goddamn feet. Sherlock, you just need to take a deep breath and calm down while you're out there. Keep taking your shots—they'll start falling eventually. Have confidence in yourself. Everyone else, you're not doing bad but you need to do better. Be quicker and more alert. They want to win—you need to want it more." Cliches and platitudes, the weapons of coaches everywhere. 

Sherlock returned to his mind, picturing himself hitting his shots and making the steals he had missed earlier. Lestrade eventually wrapped up his talk, after outlining a plan to shut down the two St. Rose players who had done the most damage. "Run the plays. Listen to John. He's the only one not losing his head out there, all right? You listen to him and do what he says." That part was good advice, at least.

In the end, it didn't help. Almost everyone on the team had a better second half, but so did St. Rose. Barts got to within four points, but never caught up; they lost 57-63. Sherlock himself had nine points in the second half: three baskets, including a three-pointer and then two more free throws when he was fouled late in the game. Not his best game by far, but his performance in the second half was reassuring. Apparently Lestrade had been right about him needing a confidence boost. He grimaced and resolved not to doubt himself again. 

It was after ten by the time they filed onto the bus that would take them home; they'd be back here tomorrow afternoon for the consolation game against LeMoyne College. Sherlock found a seat in the middle and John slid into the row in front of him, dropping his duffle bag from his shoulder. He knelt up on one knee, draping himself over the back of the seat. "Least we don't have to play Appledore tomorrow."

Sherlock froze, instantly reviewing the last two hours in light of the possibility that John may have thrown the game in order to avoid having to face Moriarty and Moran. _No._ John had led the team in scoring, contributing nearly a third of the team's points as well as six assists. He'd even managed to get a couple of rebounds despite being by far the smallest player on the court. St. Rose as a whole had just played better basketball.

"Yeah." Sherlock nodded and sighed. "Come sit with me?" he asked.

John looked around the bus. Everyone was fairly subdued, listening to music or fiddling with their phones. Tay was sitting with Campbell, Noah with Jenkins, Anderson with one of the walk-ons. It wouldn't seem strange for John to sit next to Sherlock. He watched John's face brighten as he reached that same conclusion. Sherlock slid over into the seat by the window and John plopped down next to him, grazing Sherlock's thigh with his fingers. Sherlock exhaled and leaned back in his seat, grateful that at least part of the evening had been redeemed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basketball term: John says Anderson is a good "sixth man," a term for a player who doesn't usually start the game (since there are 5 players on the floor at a time) but who is often the first person to be substituted in when another player comes out. (It would be helpful if Anderson was bigger and could substitute for various positions, but hey, I take what I'm given here.)

Saturday's game against LeMoyne went slightly better. No, that wasn't true—it went a lot better: they won. Sherlock's own performance, however, was even worse than it had been on Friday, if he judged it by points scored and playing time earned, which of course he did. He was a shooting guard; it was his job to score points. Yes, it was nice that the team had won, but he expected better of himself. And everyone else on the team was so _happy_ —it was obvious that last year's disastrous season had acclimatized them to losing, but Sherlock himself had no such experience.

He slumped against the window on the bus ride home, ignoring the chatter and laughter all around him. John slid into the seat next to him and Sherlock muttered, "I shot two for fifteen. Are you sure you want to be seen sitting with me?"

"Hey, come on, you did okay. You had a lot of assists." John offered him half of the protein bar he'd dug out of his bag. 

Sherlock took the offering but frowned as he bit into the bar. "Don't try to placate me," he said around a mouthful of chewy oats and raisins. "Anderson had more points coming off the bench than I did."

"He's a good sixth man."

Sherlock snorted. Anderson wouldn't have gotten any playing time if Lestrade hadn't kept taking Sherlock out of the lineup. He didn't really feel like arguing about it with John though, so he just ate the rest of the protein bar and then put on his headphones and stared out the window. John gave him a quick pat on the leg and then spent the rest of the ride laughing and joking with their other teammates. 

Sherlock felt a little better once he was back on campus and had a chance to shower and join the rest of the team for dinner. Everyone was so cheerful that it was hard to stay upset, even at himself. And he was now experienced enough to interpret the looks that John gave him throughout the meal as a promise of what was to come later on tonight.

After dinner nearly everyone went back to John's suite; Sherlock was trying to come up with a plausible excuse for him and John to disappear when Campbell corralled everyone into the kitchen and announced, "All right. Time to celebrate. The shuttle into town leaves in ten minutes. Everyone got their IDs?" 

Anderson and Jenkins nodded; Tay ran back into his room to retrieve his wallet. When he came back he wrinkled his nose and gestured at John. "Are you really going out wearing that?" 

John glanced down at himself and shrugged. He was still wearing his game uniform with his warm-up outfit over it. "I didn't get a chance to shower earlier because you were hogging the bathroom. But you guys go on without me. I'm going to stay in tonight—my wallet's empty."

"Right," Campbell said. "Your wallet." He raised his eyebrows and then turned to Sherlock and gave an exaggerated wink. "Lemme guess. You too broke to go out, too?"

Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head, flipping his hair out of his eyes. He hadn't even bothered to try to get a fake ID since he'd got to Barts. "I'm not much of a drinker."

Campbell, Anderson and Jenkins all laughed, nudging each other. Sherlock shrugged and leaned back against the refrigerator, trying to look nonchalant. "It's true," he said. "I've got better things to do than get drunk." He was still a bit amazed that hardly anyone seemed to care that he and John were having sex; the fairly constant stream of jokes and innuendo that they'd had to endure since they'd been discovered was easy enough to endure.

Tay snorted and slapped John on the back. "You're better than getting drunk. Must be pretty good."

"Fuck off," John said. "I am good." He tried to push Tay toward the door but Tay planted his feet, easily resisting John's efforts to move him. 

Anderson watched for a moment, then shook his head and grabbed Tay by the arm. "Come on, let's go already. If those two stay home it's just more beer for us."

Sherlock couldn't help himself. "That makes no sense. The two of us would die of alcohol poisoning long before we could consume even a small portion of—"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Do you want us to leave or not?" Anderson gave a final tug and Tay relented, following him out the door. Campbell and Jenkins trailed after them. 

John leaned out into the hallway. "Hey, it's early still," he said. "Don't overdo it, all right?"

"Relax," Jenkins said. "There's no practice tomorrow, won't matter if we're hungover."

"Okay, but nothing you can't recover from in a day," John told him. "And don't get arrested!"

"Yeah, okay. You two be careful, too, all right? Use protection and don't hurt each other when you put your dicks in each other's asses or anything." Everyone in the hall seemed to think that was hilarious; Sherlock would've thought they were already drunk if he hadn't known better.

"Oh my God. Get out of here." John slammed the door shut and leaned forward against it for a moment, shaking his head. 

Sherlock stared at him, trying to deduce what he was thinking from the tension in his neck and the way his shoulders moved beneath the stretch of his shirt. _Does he want to—?_ As an abstract concept, "putting their dicks in each other's asses," as Jenkins so eloquently phrased it, was something Sherlock would be interested in trying. Maybe. Definitely. Probably. Or it would have been something he was interested in if it weren't for the fact that the one brief experience he'd had with anal sex when he was at Hartswood had not gone well, to say the least. Victor had never spoken to him again, in fact, not that Sherlock had tried to pursue the relationship. He didn't think that would happen with John, but he wasn't willing to risk what they had for the sake of trying something new in bed.

He swallowed, grasping for something to say, unable to get Jenkins's words out of his head. John turned to face him and Sherlock blurted, "We don't really need protection. I've been tested and I'm clean." 

John blinked at him. "Yeah, well, I know you must've had a physical before you started here, so...." 

Sherlock scrambled for something else to say. He hadn't meant to make it sound like he wanted to do anything other than what they usually did, but maybe John wanted to. He shifted and clasped his hands behind his back, trying to act casual.

John stretched and nodded down the hall. "I'm going to take a shower. You could join me if you want."

The sudden change of topic threw him. "I-I just took a shower."

"So don't then." John spread his hands out and shrugged. "I'll be naked in the tub alone if you change your mind." He turned his back to Sherlock again and strode down the hall, working his shirt up and over his head as he walked and then letting it drop to the floor outside the bathroom.

Sherlock inhaled and forgot all about what type of sex they had or hadn't had before. He slipped into the bathroom after John, crowding into the small space that held the shower and toilet separate from the sink. When John closed the door there wasn't really enough room for them both to get undressed but they made do, standing close and tugging at each other's clothes while the water heated up. John had to adjust the shower head when they got in; Tay must've used it last. Sherlock stood away from the spray, watching as John soaped and washed his hair and then tipped his head back into the water, letting it sluice away the shampoo. When he was done, Sherlock started to reach for the bar of soap that sat on the shelf but John caught him by the wrist and drew him close instead. Sherlock ran his hands up and down along John's hips and ribs, enjoying how his fingers slipped beneath the slick rush of water. He pushed the wet hair away from John's forehead and brushed his lips against it, getting a taste of shampoo and the school's slightly over-chlorinated water. "Don't you want to be clean?"

"I want to be hard," John answered, punctuating it with a thrust against Sherlock's thigh. "Oh, wait, I already am."

Sherlock laughed and circled his arms around John, pulling him even closer, and knew he would do absolutely anything John wanted to, as long as it made him feel as good as he did right now. He tipped his head for a kiss, closing his eyes against the hot spray of the shower. John's right hand was on his shoulder, pressing down, as if he were trying to pull Sherlock lower—it wasn't that difficult to kiss with their height difference, why was he—? Oh. Sherlock bent his knees a bit and John moved against him, trying to line up their cocks. Sherlock put his hands under John's arse and tried to raise him a little more, but John balked at being lifted. "You don't need to pick me up, I can—" He shifted against Sherlock again, pushing himself up on his toes. "See, it's—" John lost his balance and pitched forward, into Sherlock. 

Sherlock took a step backward, right foot scraping along the rough texture of the tub bottom, John's weight making it impossible for him to stop his momentum. He reached out his left hand in a last second attempt to halt his fall, crumpling the plastic shower curtain liner in his fist. _Bad idea._ He knew it even before he felt the curtain pull free of the rings as he crashed down, thumping his back on the end of the tub. 

John landed squarely on top of him with a grunt. "You okay?" John lifted his weight up enough to allow Sherlock to breathe. 

"Yes. Curtain's not, though." Sherlock nodded his chin toward the liner, which was hanging crookedly from the half-dozen hooks that had not torn free. 

"Shit." John laughed and sat up so he could reach back and turn off the tap. He wiped water out of his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up. "Rod's starting to pull out of the wall. Remind me to call maintenance later. They're gonna bill me for that, aren't they?"

"I'll pay for it," Sherlock said, and pulled John back down on top of him again. His back stung where he'd hit the tub but his erection hadn't flagged one bit, and now it was much easier to line up their cocks. John's hand was on them both, and it seemed like his fingers weren't long enough to do what they were doing, but given that he was able to palm a basketball maybe it was more about strength and dexterity than length after all. Sherlock tried to buck up into his grasp but his feet started to slip so he settled back down into the tub and let John do all the work. It took a little longer than he expected—now that the shower was off, their bodies were more tacky than slippery—but after a few minutes John started to tremble atop him, and Sherlock's cock reacted to the idea that John was about to come, and John's hand sped up and lost rhythm, and then it was over, leaving them both shivering and sticky.

"Jesus Christ, that was the most uncomfortable way to get off I've ever tried," John said, separating himself from Sherlock and clamoring out of the tub. "I'm freezing and I never got to wash anything but my hair."

Sherlock sat up and turned the water back on so he could rinse himself off. "Doesn't matter. I'm just going to make you sweat again once we get out of here."

John grinned. "Looking forward to it," he said, and tossed Sherlock a towel from a stack on the shelf.

They managed two more rounds that night, both more satisfying than the encounter in the shower. Neither Sherlock nor John mentioned trying what Jenkins had suggested earlier, but as their usual repertoire was more than satisfying Sherlock let himself relax and forget about it. Since they knew Tay and Campbell wouldn't be back for hours, they made full use of the sofa in the living room, and then later they made their way to John's bed for a lazy, drawn out session that ended with both of them sated and drowsy. Sherlock slid off John and squirmed until he was mostly comfortable, his back against the wall and his head resting on the corner of John's pillow. "Goodnight," he said, and pulled the sheet and blanket up to his chin, covering them both.

"You think you're sleeping over here? In my bed?" 

Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice even with his eyes closed. "I know I am," he replied. "You couldn't move me even if you wanted to. And you don't want to."

"Mm." John turned, adjusting the covers atop them. "You better not snore. If you snore I'm kicking you out—I don't care how cute you look when you sleep."

Sherlock chuckled at the ridiculousness of John calling him cute and let himself drift off, content to stay in one position all night in the narrow bed if it meant he would be close to John. 

He woke to the sun shining through the blinds of the window across the room and the bed to himself. He could hear John moving out in the kitchen, though, and knew it was him by the relatively light sound of his tread. The others were probably still crashed out in their rooms. He grinned to himself, feeling unaccountably happy to wake up in John's room, and equally happy no one else was there to see him grinning for such a sentimental reason. He pushed the covers down to his waist and rolled into the middle of the bed, looking around John's room while he waited for him to return. It was neater than Sherlock and Anderson's room, that was for sure, but otherwise not too different. Boring blue comforter and sheets that matched, pile of textbooks on the desk, obligatory posters of NBA personalities on the walls, although John's selection of players didn't quite match up with what Sherlock expected from a point guard. He understood why John would admire Stephen Curry, but the poster of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a center who'd played over forty years ago, had never made much sense. 

A few minutes later John appeared, pushing the door open with his hip. He was carrying two bowls of cereal. "We're out of milk but that's okay because after your klutziness in the shower last night I wouldn't trust you with it in my bed anyway."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Good morning to you, too," he said, trying not to smile.

"Hey, I'm bringing you breakfast in bed. Don't complain." John handed Sherlock a bowl and sat down on the bed next to him. "We're also out of orange juice but there's Powerade in the kitchen if you want it. Move over."

Sherlock moved over and they ate breakfast in bed together, sitting cross-legged and laughing as much as eating. John kept bumping Sherlock with his knee, telling him to move over more, that he was taking up too much room, until finally Sherlock stretched out his legs and declared that the bed was now his.

"Oh, one night and it's your bed now?"

"Yep." Sherlock set his empty cereal bowl on the floor and then lay back and wriggled his hips until he was in the center of the bed. 

John slipped off the edge of the mattress, moved both bowls to the desk, and then launched himself at Sherlock. Sherlock laughed as he caught him and John growled. "I'll show you whose bed this is." 

"Oh, will you now?" Sherlock spread his legs and slid his feet up so his knees were bracketing John. 

"You'd better believe it." John thrust his pelvis against Sherlock's; they were both wearing basketball shorts with nothing beneath them. Sherlock let his head fall back on the pillow and wondered if it would be more fun to continue wrestling or to immediately give in. 

He tried to keep wrestling, though John cheated because he had put on a t-shirt when he got up this morning but Sherlock was still bare-chested from last night. By this point John knew how Sherlock reacted to having his nipples touched, and he didn't hesitate to use the knowledge to his advantage. Sherlock was about to surrender—no, he was about to start begging—when he heard his phone buzz.

"Oh, shit." He pushed at John and John must have been able to tell he was serious now because he rolled off him rather than trying to resist. "Sorry," Sherlock panted. He knelt up on the pillow and reached over the headboard to grab his phone off John's desk. "Forgot it was Sunday morning. I have to answer or they'll start trying to track me down. Mum. Hello." He tried to steady his voice but she wasn't fooled.

"Sherlock. You're out of breath. You're not at practice, are you? Did I mix up the time zones again?"

"No, no. I was just—" He cut himself off, at a loss for words, and looked over at John, who had sat up next to him on the bed and was trying not to giggle. "I was just hurrying to answer the phone."

"Hmm." Mummy was silent for a moment and Sherlock wished it were his father on the phone instead. Even if Dad had deduced what he was up to he would've let the matter drop, but not Mummy. "So is it a boy or a girl you were busy with, Sherlock?"

"Mum!" 

"I know you're not alone, Sherlock. I could hear you talking as you answered the phone. Are you in your room or theirs?"

"Mum! I—I'm just hanging out with one of my teammates, that's all."

"That's all? Sherlock." She paused again and Sherlock jumped at the chance to change the topic.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier. Did you and Dad end up going to the bridge tournament or the dance competition last week?"

"Dance. We came in third. What's his name?"

"Sorry?"

"Your teammate. Is it his first year on the team, too?"

Those seemed like safe enough questions to answer. Sherlock lowered himself to a more comfortable sitting position and settled his back against the wall, his knee touching John's. "His name's John. He's actually a grad student—he redshirted last year because he was hurt."

"I have no idea what that means. Is he one of the small players like you are or is he big and tall?"

"He's a point guard. He's a lot smaller than me," Sherlock said, and John shoved at his shoulder. Sherlock put his hand over the phone and mouthed "ow" back at John.

"That's a pity," Mummy said. "I always did like a nice tall man. Thought maybe we shared that preference."

"Mum!"

"Fine, Sherlock. Tell me I didn't catch you in a compromising position and I'll let the matter drop."

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his head toward John, wondering if he ever had to deal with such nosy relatives. John made a kissy face at him and Sherlock glared and looked away again. "We played our first two games this weekend," he told Mummy, ignoring her last statement. "We lost Friday but won yesterday. I had eleven points in the first game but only four yesterday but I did have five assists. Anything else you wanted, Mum?" He was convinced she had no idea what he was talking about but he'd been reeling off his stats to her for years now and she always pretended to be interested. Although the numbers had usually been quite a bit more impressive back at Hartswood. He sighed and then glanced over at John and was immediately cheered at what he saw. John had stripped off his shirt again and was lounging with his knees up, his baggy shorts giving an excellent view of what they were meant to cover. Sherlock decided he didn't care what his mother knew about his personal life, as long as he could end this call. "Mum, I have to go. Our next game is Wednesday. I'll text you the results." He stabbed at the button to turn off the phone and tossed it onto the floor; a moment later both his and John's shorts had joined it.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite having spent most of his teenage years in America, Sherlock had never actually celebrated Thanksgiving. But this year the team had practice on Wednesday and a game on Friday, which meant instead of flying home for a few days off, he'd be here for the holiday. What he really wanted to do was spend the day alone with John, but instead he would have to settle for a mid-morning session in the weight room followed by a team dinner hosted by Mrs. Hudson, the elderly woman who'd donated so much money to the school after her ex-husband was arrested for multiple murders. At least the tradition of eating as much as possible and then falling asleep in front of the television sounded appealing.

He almost skipped the weight room. It wasn't mandatory, and staying in bed was a lot more enticing. Unfortunately, Anderson seemed to feel strongly that Sherlock needed to get up and join him. 

"Come on, wake up." Anderson grabbed the corner of Sherlock's blanket and comforter and pulled them back.

"Stop it. What's wrong with you? It's freezing in here." Sherlock scrambled to retrieve the covers so he could burrow into the bed again. 

"Yeah. It's cold out and it snowed a lot. Come on." Anderson tried to pull the blankets off again but Sherlock wouldn't let go. "We're meeting at 10. I got you a muffin because I knew you wouldn't make it to the dining hall in time for breakfast."

"Did you get coffee?" He spoke around the edge of the comforter, knowing the answer; Anderson had spent the whole semester trying to break him of his coffee habit.

"No. You should've gotten up earlier if you wanted coffee."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over, pulling his comforter around himself. "Go away. I need sleep and coffee more than I need to lift weights."

"Maybe you shouldn't have stayed so late at John's last night."

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "You're just lonely and jealous." 

"Oh yeah. I wish I was blowing the team captain. Then maybe I'd get more playing time."

That woke him up all the way. He sat up, pushing at the cocoon of blankets to free his arms. "That's not—"

Anderson laughed. "I know. But come on. Seriously. Get up." He turned away, apparently satisfied that Sherlock was going to listen to him and Sherlock reluctantly got up and dressed. 

Not only had it snowed, but since most of the students had been gone since late Tuesday afternoon, only a few of the campus walkways had been cleared; it took them twice as long as usual to walk to the athletic center, dodging patches of ice and drifting snow. By the time they got there, Sherlock wished he'd bothered to dig through the back of his closet to find a heavier coat; the fleece North Face he'd been wearing so far this year had been sufficient up until now, but it was not enough against today's biting wind and whipping snow. The only reason he didn't turn around and go back the dorm and his warm bed was because he knew John would be in the weight room—John would never skip even an optional practice. 

He and Anderson were late to arrive. As they stashed their coats and changed their shoes, Sherlock glanced at the other lockers to see who was here: John, of course, and both his roommates. Jenkins's locker was also full, and there was a pair of snow boots sitting on the floor in front of Brez's—they must've been too large to fit in the locker. Sherlock thought everyone else on the team lived close enough to the school that they had gone home for the day.

There was no sign of Lestrade; he was probably home having Thanksgiving with his family, though Sherlock knew he planned to meet the team at Mrs. Hudson's for dinner later. Dimmock stood in the hall outside the weight room, his phone pressed against his ear; he nodded at Sherlock and Anderson and waved them on but didn't follow. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in reply, wondering if there might still be a way to get out of the next hour. Even though he had to admit that he'd put on muscle since the beginning of the year, he still hated weight training. Maybe he could lift for a few minutes and then convince the other guards to go for a run on the indoor track instead. Or maybe just John. They were a pretty good match speed-wise, faster than most of the rest of team even though they were smaller, which was one reason Sherlock didn't like the weight room: it was much easier for the bigger players to show off. At least Anderson was here—he wasn't particularly fast or strong, so Sherlock always looked good in comparison.

He grinned as he followed Anderson into the room, then grinned even wider when he saw John, spotting Campbell on one of the sets of free weights. Sherlock set his water bottle down and started to cross the room, passing Tay and Brez; he hadn't taken more than a couple steps before Brez growled and let the weights he'd been bench-pressing clang into the frame above his head. 

"Yo, Brez, what the hell? You trying to drop it on me or what?" Tay was spotting for him; he put his hand on the bar to steady it in the cradle.

Brez grunted in reply and extricated himself from beneath the weight bar, then reached for his discarded t-shirt.

Sherlock took in the scene, narrowed his eyes at Brez and snorted a laugh. "You do not have to worry about that." He turned back toward John; the leg press machine next to him was free, so maybe he would start there.

"Not taking chances," Brez said, pulling his shirt on over his head.

Tay leaned on the barbell Brez had just put down and looked from Sherlock to Brez and back again. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Brez said. "I'm done for today."

"Your workout partner doesn't want to be bare-chested in front of me." 

"Fucking pedał," Brez muttered under his breath. Despite the foreign language, his meaning was all too clear. 

Sherlock sniffed as if it didn't bother him and said, "Nice! Bilingual insults, how advanced!" and took another step away.

John might not have heard or known the Polish slur, but he'd caught on now. "Brez, you got a problem here?" He was a good 20 feet away, standing behind the weight bench that Campbell was using, rocking up onto his toes and back down again, his fists clenched at his side and a slight smile tugging at his lips. Even at that distance, Sherlock could feel the threat emanating from him; he pushed aside the little surge of lust that thrilled through him at the sight. That would definitely not help the current situation.

"Oh, got your little boyfriend to defend you." Brez's voice was still low and muttering, but the room had gone silent enough that everyone could hear him.

Sherlock was willing to brush off the random derogatory comment, but he wasn't about to let Brez drag John into this. He turned back to face Brez and said, "Sorry, what?" He kept his voice as properly posh as he could; drawing himself up to his full height didn't help much with Brez, but a surprising number of people could be intimidated by a good English accent.

"You heard me."

Brez was still sitting on the weight bench; Sherlock knew he wouldn't have a better opportunity. Instead of turning and walking away, which would've been the wise choice, he took another step closer and caught Brez by surprise, one blow to his chin, as hard as he could because he knew he was massively outsized and would only get one chance. At least Brez was slow; he took the punch and rocked back in shock, hitting the weight bar behind him—Tay stopped it before it could fall from the rack.

Everyone in the room had frozen, watching. Sherlock's instincts told him to either try for another hit or turn and flee before Brez came to his senses and tried to kill him. Unfortunately, Brez was not quite as slow as he'd hoped; he shot off the bench and grabbed Sherlock, his freakishly giant hands easily closing around Sherlock's upper arms. Sherlock tried pushing away but only managed to paw embarrassingly at Brez's chest. Squirming didn't work, either: Brez had a very solid grip and his plan seemed to be to drag Sherlock across the room and then possibly throw him through the wall. Which might actually be less painful than being outright punched in the face by him, but Sherlock suspected Brez had not been in many fights given that he was almost a foot taller and a hundred pounds of muscle heavier than the average man. _Who in their right mind would want to fight him?_

Sherlock blinked his eyes once, wondered when he had become an absolute idiot, and then tried again to free himself by kicking at Brez's shins and clawing at his chest as he was propelled backward across the room.

If they'd been alone, Brez certainly would've won. Luckily, no one else on the team seemed to want Sherlock to die. Campbell was the first to reach them, vaulting up from his own weight bench and crossing the distance in two long strides, while Tay and John scrambled out from behind their respective machinery. Jenkins was in the far corner, behind Sherlock, and Anderson was still by the door, but they both rushed toward them as well and then everyone was grabbing and pushing and pulling at the two of them. Tay and Campbell were trying to hold Brez back while Anderson and Jenkins attempted to pry his hands off Sherlock and John shouted at everyone to stop right this instant and let go of each other. Sherlock was able to get his feet back under himself and after a few more moments of everyone struggling, broke free of Brez's grasp and collapsed back onto the seat of the closest machine. The adrenaline coursing through his body was temporarily numbing the burning in his arms where Brez had grabbed hold of him, but he knew he was going to be bruised and hurting later on, to say nothing of what he had done to his own knuckles with the punch. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for moment, wondering why he had let Anderson force him out of bed this morning.

"What the hell is going on in here?" 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open; he'd forgotten completely about Dimmock, not that remembering would've stopped him from throwing the punch. 

No one answered; on either side of Sherlock, Anderson and Jenkins exchanged a glance and then looked at Tay and Campbell, who were still holding onto Brez. John shuffled his feet but didn't open his mouth, either. Sherlock didn't want to wait to see who would break first. "I punched him," he said. He thrust his chin toward Brez but kept his eyes on Dimmock.

Dimmock's face creased in puzzlement. "Why?" 

A fair question—not only was punching someone so much bigger a stupid thing to do, neither he nor Brez had a reputation as a brawler. Sherlock tried to think of a good answer but Brez beat him to it. 

"I called him a faggot."

Well, that was a bit more of a straightforward explanation than Sherlock had planned. He sneered up at Brez. "Oh, now you speak English?"

"Yeah. Fuck you, faggot." 

Sherlock lunged up off the bench but Anderson and Jenkins didn't let him get close this time. Brez didn't even flinch and made no move to break free of Tay and Campbell's grips. 

Dimmock stepped in between them. He stared Sherlock down first, presumably making sure that he wasn't about to try to go after Brez again, and then turned to Brez. "If I ever hear language like that out of your mouth again...." Sherlock had no idea what the rest of the threat might be, but he was impressed at the way Dimmock held his ground even though Brez towered over him. Brez narrowed his eyes but nodded, rolling his shoulders as Tay and Campbell released their hold on him. 

"Good. All right," Dimmock said and exhaled, seeming to shrink back to his normal unimpressive size again. "There aren't any trainers here today, so come with me and we'll get some ice on that before it swells up too much." He gestured at Brez's face, which had gone a brilliant red where Sherlock had hit him.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from smirking; at least he'd hit him hard enough to leave a mark. He should probably ice his hand, too, but that could wait until Dimmock was done with Brez. 

Dimmock turned and headed for the door and Brez followed, putting his hand up to his chin as he passed by Sherlock. Their eyes met for a brief, uncomfortable moment before they both looked away and Sherlock heard Brez mutter, "Little English fuckboy thinks he can—"

Sherlock rounded on Brez before anyone could stop him. He used his left hand, this time, because his right one still hurt; he wasn't as ambidextrous as John but basketball had trained him to use both sides of his body and he could land a punch with his left. He went for the stomach, mostly because it was within his reach, and again caught Brez off guard, which was good because Brez was muscular enough that if he'd had time to flex, Sherlock's fist probably would've bounced right off. As it was, Sherlock was at least able to knock the breath out of him; Brez curled forward, left arm held protectively over his stomach, right hand already forming a fist to punch back. Sherlock quickly danced out of his reach, and then the rest of the team was in between them again, keeping them apart until Dimmock stormed back into the middle of the room.

"That's it!" Dimmock looked like he was ready to start throwing punches himself. "What the hell has gotten into you two today? This is not how we treat our teammates!"

Someone was holding Sherlock's arms behind his back: John. He would recognize the feel of his hands anywhere by now, which was part of the reason they were in this mess at the moment, wasn't it? He gave a half-hearted tug but John didn't let go and Sherlock wasn't really trying to break free. There was nowhere for him to go even if he did. "You heard what he said to me!" he shouted at Dimmock.

"Yeah, I heard." Dimmock exhaled sharply through his nose and turned to look up at Brez, who still had his hand pressed to his middle but seemed to have gotten his breath back. "And what I heard was completely, one hundred percent inappropriate. But you." He spun sharply back to point at Sherlock. "I don't care what he said, that doesn't give you leave to hit him. We don't hit our teammates. We don't hit anyone, but especially not our teammates." He looked back and forth between them again. "I'm going to have to report this to Coach Lestrade. If you're lucky, you'll only be suspended for one game. Both of you. You're like a couple of five-year-olds we have to put in time-out." He shook his head. "Come on, Brez. Sherlock, stay here."

Sherlock had no intention of following them anyway. He knew he was lucky Brez hadn't taken a swing at him the second time, and having to sit out one game was more than worth the satisfaction he'd gotten from landing both his punches. The first few games of the season had been disappointing anyway; even though they'd won half of them, Sherlock himself hadn't had what he considered a good performance yet. 

He held his ground as Dimmock and Brez passed by him, not willing to back down but also not trying to free himself from the firm grip John still had on his arms. Brez didn't even glance at Sherlock, though before he reached the door he looked back at John for a moment and growled something in Polish, too fast and complex for Sherlock to even begin to understand anything other than the name "Watson." John dropped Sherlock's arms and turned to face Brez, who sneered but continued out the door.

Dimmock stopped in his tracks, gaping at John. "Were you involved in this?" 

John inhaled, chest puffing up, and Sherlock was certain he was about to implicate himself, but then Anderson stepped up next to him and said, "Nah, John didn't do anything. He helped us pull them apart."

Sherlock watched John scrape at his bottom lip with his teeth and breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't say anything. Jenkins backed up Anderson's words, saying, "Yeah, it was all Brez and Sherlock. And Brez definitely started it, with what he said."

Dimmock nodded. "Trust me, Brez and I are going to have a little discussion, and I'm pretty sure Coach Lestrade will have a few things to say to him as well." He turned back to Sherlock. "That still doesn't excuse hitting him. You understand?" He turned away before Sherlock could come up with an appropriate response; he wanted to say something wittier and more dismissive than he felt at the moment.

Dimmock left, the door swinging shut behind him, and Sherlock looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. Around him, everyone else started to talk; he tried to block it out but no one would let him. Tay crossed the room, headed back to the bench press, and smacked Sherlock in the shoulder on the way. "Dude, that was the stupidest thing I have ever seen anyone do. I mean, I understand why you did it, but it was stupid. He could've crushed you." He sat down on the bench and took a swig from his water bottle, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Anderson agreed. "But thanks for giving me the chance to start a game, that was nice of you."

Tay and Campbell and Jenkins all laughed, but Sherlock couldn't even manage a smile. He glanced over at John, but he had sat down at one of the lat machines, putting his back to the rest of the room. 

Sherlock looked down at his own hands again, curling them into fists, testing the damage he'd done to himself. The right one hurt more than the left, but he didn't think he'd broken any bones or done any long-term damage. Unfortunately, he hadn't really hurt Brez, either: it would've been nice if he'd managed to break his jaw or crack a rib or two. Maybe he could've even put Brez out of commission for the rest of the season, so he and John wouldn't have to deal with his homophobic hatred any more. He sighed and looked around the room again; everyone was getting back to their own workouts. He crossed the room to the leg machines, which put him farther away from John but wouldn't require him to use his hands at all. He should have definitely stayed in bed this morning; so far this Thanksgiving had given him nothing for which to be thankful.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock put on his suit before they left for Thanksgiving dinner; his usual athletic clothes had seemed too casual for today, and he was starting to feel more comfortable in the suit now that he'd been wearing it every game day. Unfortunately, it didn't help put him at ease on the drive to Mrs. Hudson's house, while he was crammed into the back seat of a van between Anderson and John, trying not to let his thigh relax too much against John's in case Dimmock looked in the rear view mirror and saw it. His hands ached from the punches he'd thrown and the only thing that made the ride tolerable, other than the promise of food, was the fact that Brez had decided not to join them. Maybe he was supposed to feel guilty for hurting the team's camaraderie, but all he felt was relief. The fact that no one would be actively harassing him more than made up for having to refrain from being too demonstrative with John in front of the coaches.

When they pulled up to the Hudson estate, everyone piled out of the van in an excited jumble while Sherlock tried to muster the enthusiasm the rest of the team seemed to have. He glanced up at the house as they walked the winding path to the front door. It was a bit of a mess style-wise, with brick, stone and wooden clapboard all fighting for attention, but Sherlock thought that gave it some interesting character. And it was huge, at least triple the size of his parents' home back in England, which was large but still cozy. Probably some of his classmates at Hartswood had lived in mansions this big, but he'd never been close enough to anyone to visit their home. 

He expected a butler or someone to answer the door, but instead they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson herself, a tiny woman, impeccably dressed in a purple dress and wearing a full complement of jewelry and make-up. She smiled and stepped out of the doorway to wave them into the house.

"Oh, it's so cold out today, come in, come in. Philip, don't you dare stomp your boots on my hardwood. Take them off and set them on the rack, there's a good boy." 

Anderson blustered an apology and did as he was told while Mrs. Hudson went on to greet the rest of the team by name. "Oh, and you must be Sherlock! I'm sorry I haven't been out to the campus yet to meet you. Couldn't make it to last week's game, my hip was acting up something awful, but I've got my prescription filled now so it's been feeling much better." 

Sherlock found himself relieved of his shoes and bustled into a formal living room, and then directed down a long hallway.

"I'm afraid I don't have a proper coat room in this house, but you can put your coats down here." She opened the door to a comparatively small room that held a baby grand piano and a number of potted plants. "Oh, I left Greg alone in the kitchen. I should check and make sure he hasn't ruined dinner. Just pile your things on the bench." She hurried off, leaving them to sort themselves out and joke about Coach Lestrade cooking.

Sherlock tried to slip off his heavy winter coat, but it was too tight across the shoulders and he had to step away from everyone else to have space to maneuver out of it. 

Jenkins noticed. "Yo, Sherlock. Nice fit. Looks like you're wearing your boyfriend's coat." Jenkins nudged John and John gave a half-hearted grin. Tay and Campbell and Anderson all laughed, but not as raucously as they normally would have. 

Sherlock took a step closer to the door and peered down the hall; Lestrade and Dimmock were nowhere to be seen. Jenkins must have realized why he was looking. "Hey, sorry. I didn't mean—"

Sherlock shrugged and resumed taking off his coat. John glanced at him and then said to Jenkins, "It's all right. But let's stick to other topics today, okay?"

Jenkins nodded and whacked John on the shoulder. "That coat would totally fit you, though."

Sherlock folded the coat in question in half. "I had a growth spurt last winter," he said.

"Woo-hoo, you hit six feet!" Tay said. "We're so proud of you."

Anderson rolled his eyes and said, "Height's overrated," which got a more sincere laugh out of John. 

Sherlock added his coat to the pile on the piano bench, then ran his fingers lightly over the keys. Dust. Mrs. Hudson should keep it covered if she didn't play it regularly. He picked out a few notes, feeling his bruised knuckles twinge as he stretched his fingers.

"Is there anything you aren't good at?" Anderson curled his lip and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

"My brother's the piano player, actually. I play the violin."

Anderson snorted. "Of course you do." He shook his head. "Come on, we're not here for a concert. The game's on." He turned his back to Sherlock and led the others out of the room. 

Sherlock thought again about how he wished he had time for his violin as he continued the song he had started, his memory of the keys returning as he played.

"Hey."

He felt John's hand touch his wrist, halting his playing. He hadn't realized John hadn't left with the others. He stopped and turned and John immediately let go of him, though there was no one else around to see them.

John stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. He was dressed like a forty-year-old—or like the doctor he was going to be in a few years—in khakis and a plaid button-down shirt with a cardigan over it. Sherlock was surprised at how attractive he found the outfit, though maybe he shouldn't have been—John had worn a similar style the night they'd first kissed. He blinked his eyes shut and reminded himself that not only was half the team just down the hall, but so were the coaches, ready to celebrate the quintessential American holiday. Not a time to be thinking about how quickly he could undo those buttons on John's shirt.

He could tell from John's stance that he was not having similarly erotic thoughts. John looked up to meet his eyes briefly and then looked straight ahead, eyes about chin-height to Sherlock, and blew out a breath. "I wanted to apologize to you."

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head. "Why?" John had been a little quieter than normal on the ride here, but he had done nothing that merited an apology. 

"For not saying anything this morning. When Dimmock asked if anyone else was involved in the fight."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But you weren't involved."

"Yeah, but I was, though. I mean, I was part of the reason you punched him, right? The reason he called you what he did. I should've said something. He basically outed you to Dimmock and I didn't say anything."

Sherlock shrugged. "You couldn't have said anything. He didn't out me to Dimmock. But if you'd jumped into the fight to defend me, then Dimmock might've figured out there was actually a reason he called me a faggot, other than him just being a bigoted arse."

John frowned, forehead wrinkling. "Yeah, I guess it might've made it worse." He shook his head. "I hate this, hiding from the coaches and the rest of the school."

"So do I, but...." Sherlock lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. There wasn't much they could do about it. They could either keep it a secret or come out to everyone. He'd never really discussed it with John, but Sherlock had no desire to be out to the world at large. His personal life was no one's business but his own, though he thought that after he was done with school and no longer playing ball he wouldn't care who knew. But he'd seen enough news stories about other college athletes who were gay to know that once he came out, that would be the only thing he was known for. It wouldn't matter how good or bad his stats were—he would just be the gay basketball player. He wanted to be remembered for winning games, not for sleeping with John.

"Yeah, I know." John sighed. "At least Brez isn't here, so there shouldn't be any more punching today."

"Yes, my hand's still pretty sore anyway."

John shook his head and laughed. "You're still an idiot for taking a swing at him. Come on, if we stay in here any longer the guys'll start making comments about what we're doing."

They made their way back down the hall to the room Mrs. Hudson had called the front parlor. Sherlock would've said it was a home theater, with a television that took up an entire wall and enough sofas and armchairs to seat the whole team, including those who weren't here today. 

As Sherlock and John entered the room, Lestrade poked his head through the doorway on the other side. "Ah, the game's started but I have to chop more onions." He flipped the kitchen towel he was holding over his shoulder and then glanced around the room. "Where's Brez?"

Tay, Campbell and Anderson paused in their squabble over who got to sit closest to the gigantic bowls of pretzels and M&Ms but no one said anything. Dimmock, who had settled into a recliner with a bottle of beer, cleared his throat and said, "He decided not to come."

Lestrade frowned. "But what's he going to eat for Thanksgiving dinner?" 

"He said he's got Hot Pockets in his room. Greg, you and I need to talk. Privately." Dimmock sat up, closing the reclining chair with his legs, and nodded in the direction of the main hallway.

"All right." Lestrade frowned again but followed Dimmock, giving a confused glance back at the team as they claimed their seats. 

Sherlock looked at John, who bit at his lip and took a seat on the end of one of the sofas. Sherlock wondered if he should sit by him but then Tay patted the space next to him on the other sofa. "Come on. You're gonna learn about football now. Foot. Ball."

Sherlock curled his lip in distaste but dropped down onto the cushion next to Tay. He stretched his legs out in front of him and let his head fall against the sofa back. "I have no interest in watching American football."

"That's because you don't know the rules. Once you understand it, you'll like it."

"I do understand it."

"No, he's right." Anderson moved from the armchair he'd been in to sit on the other side of Sherlock. "I taught Sally the rules and now she likes it."

He lifted his head to stare at Anderson. "One: do not compare me to your ex-girlfriend. Two: I highly doubt that you taught Sally the rules of American football. Maybe she let you think you were teaching her. And three: you do realize I spent three years at a prep school in the Midwestern U.S.? I understand the game. I just have no interest in it."

Anderson shook his head and reached for a handful of pretzels. "You just got to watch it some more. We'll explain it to you. You'll see."

Sherlock dropped his head back again and closed his eyes, letting his teammates' enthusiastic narration of the game wash over him unheard. Even if he'd been interested in the sport, he was too worried about what Dimmock was telling Lestrade to pay any attention to it. He didn't even feel like eating any of the snacks Mrs. Hudson kept replenishing. 

When the coaches finally reappeared, Sherlock expected to be taken aside for a lecture, but Dimmock sat down in the recliner again without saying a word and Lestrade returned to the kitchen. When he finally came back into the parlor, it was to summon everyone to the dinner table, not to single out Sherlock. Despite everyone's self-professed interest in the game, no one hesitated in rushing to the dining room. 

Sherlock ended up sitting in between John and Tay at the table. He tried to resist the urge to gravitate closer to John, worried that Dimmock or Lestrade would notice if their legs touched or elbows bumped. 

They started the meal by joining hands and saying grace, led by Lestrade, and Sherlock wondered if that was common at all Thanksgiving meals or if it was because Barts was a Catholic school. He didn't actually hear if the prayer was religious or not because he was too busy trying to make sure he held John's hand in the same friendly but non-intimate way he held Tay's.

Once they were done everyone began to pass the food around. Sherlock started with turkey and gravy, two kinds of potatoes, stuffing, a roll, corn, peas and spinach. There were a few other dishes he couldn't quite identify—casseroles of some sort—were those beans? He'd had Jello before, but not with carrots in it, and how did they get cranberries to have that consistency? Fortunately there was enough food that he knew he'd be able to fill up without having to try everything. 

No one talked much for the first few minutes of the meal, which Sherlock appreciated, but then John picked up his wineglass. Only he and Campbell had been served alcohol, since no one else was 21 yet, which was an extremely stupid law that Lestrade insisted on following. John took a gulp of his wine and said, "Hey, did you guys know this is Sherlock's first Thanksgiving?" 

Sherlock darted a sideways glance at him, then returned his attention to his plate. He understood that John was probably almost as uncomfortable as he was, but he wished he'd chosen a different topic to break the tension.

"What about all those years you were at prep school not watching football?" Tay asked. 

"We always had five days off at Thanksgiving, so I would fly back home."

John gestured toward him with a fork full of mashed potatoes. "That's an expensive plane ticket for a five-day visit."

"I guess my family really likes to have me around. I mean, not enough to keep them from sending me to school on the other side of the ocean, but you know...." He shrugged and reached for the gravy. In truth, he'd never minded being sent off to America and the only bits of homesickness he ever experienced tended to be more for London than for his family members.

"Don't you miss your family? When was the last time you went home?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I was there all summer," he replied. "My parents are all right, I guess, but my brother is horrible."

"I didn't even know you had a brother." John stopped eating long enough to stare at him.

Sherlock glanced at him, then turned back to face forward, remembering to act like there was no reason John should know more about him than anyone else on the team. "Mycroft," he said. "He's 26 and has a cushy government job and still lives at home. He's insufferable."

"Mycroft?" Mrs. Hudson said. "Your family has such interesting names!"

Sherlock smiled at that, though he thought they'd talked quite enough about him for one day. "Do you play the piano, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, no." She set her wine glass down. "I don't know the first thing about it. It was my late ex-husband's piano. He was very talented. You never would've guessed he was a murderer, hearing him play."

That got Sherlock's attention. Not that her ex-husband had played the piano, but that he was also her late ex-husband. "Did he get executed?" he asked, before he could think about whether that was an appropriate question for mealtime. 

"Sherlock!" It was the first time Lestrade had spoken to him since they'd arrived here.

"Oh, Greg, it's fine," Mrs. Hudson replied. "I know how boys are. So curious about the more gruesome aspects of life. No, Frank died of a heart attack in prison." She took another small sip from her wineglass, looking thoughtful. "He could have been executed, though. The murders were federal crimes so being in New York wouldn't have helped him. Would you like to try some sweet potatoes?"

Sherlock blinked at her and then accepted her offer of sweet potatoes, letting the conversation drift to the food they were eating. Watching John relax next to him as he finished his second glass of wine made Sherlock a bit jealous, though he wasn't usually inclined to drinking. He'd certainly had wine at formal dinners back home in England, and a glass or two would've helped take the edge off the memory of this morning's encounter with Brez. _Not as much as a hit would._ The thought caught him by surprise, and though he had no intention of acting on it, the fact that getting high sounded even somewhat appealing was enough to set his nerves more on edge. 

All he really wanted to do was to disappear somewhere alone with John. Simply curling up next to him on the sofa to watch telly would be a welcome comfort and distraction. Maybe tonight when they got back to campus they'd get a chance to be alone, assuming they were both able to stay awake after eating so much.

He ended up trying every dish, including the ones he couldn't identify, and was sure he couldn't eat another bite, but then Mrs. Hudson declared it was time for dessert and it would've been rude to refuse. She'd made a total of eight pies, four different kinds; Campbell and John helped her carry them all out from the kitchen. 

"Oh, the toppings!" She scurried back out of the room and returned with whipped cream as well as ice cream. "For the apple pie, it helps bring out the flavor." She sat down and leaned back in her chair; Sherlock heard two soft thumps as she let her shoes fall from her feet beneath the table. "That was a good meal, if I do say so myself," she said. "But I'm getting too old for all this cooking and baking. I wish I could take you all out to a nice restaurant instead, but that would probably violate some rule about gifts, wouldn't it?" She reached for her wine glass and took a long sip. "Oh well, I do love to entertain. So many handsome young men in my house. It makes it all worthwhile." She giggled and Sherlock wondered if perhaps she shouldn't have been mixing wine with her hip medication.

He only had room for two pieces of pie, one pumpkin, one apple, and by the time he finished he was fairly certain he was going to be too sick to play basketball for the next week. Maybe it didn't matter if Lestrade ended up suspending him. He closed his eyes and swallowed the last bit of pie crust, feeling it settle into the lump in his stomach. 

"Time for more football!" Anderson announced as they headed back into the parlor, everyone moving much more slowly than they had before. Sherlock groaned and John laughed.

"Don't worry," John said. "It's perfectly acceptable to fall asleep after eating Thanksgiving dinner. You don't need to watch the game." He patted his arm; Sherlock tried not to jump at the unexpected contact. If he fell asleep on the sofa next to John he'd probably end up reaching over and grabbing him in his sleep. He groaned again.

As it turned out, falling asleep wasn't an issue. He didn't even get a chance to sit down.

"Sherlock." 

There it was. What he'd been dreading all afternoon. Lestrade, come to speak with him about what had happened. The last piece of pie seemed like a very bad idea now; the taste in his mouth had gone sour. 

There was an obvious silence while the rest of the team all stared at him for a moment, then an even more obvious burst of chatter as they pretended to ignore it as Lestrade led him out of the room and down the hall to Mrs. Hudson's study. 

The room was beautifully appointed, all dark wood and plush upholstery, and Sherlock wished he could vanish into the cushions of the armchair Lestrade beckoned for him to take. He sat on the edge of the seat instead, trying to keep himself still and calm. 

Lestrade didn't sit, just leaned against the corner of the desk in the center of the room, clearly putting himself physically above Sherlock so as to better lecture him. But instead of a lecture, he started off by asking, "Did you get enough to eat?"

"What?" Sherlock frowned. "Yes." 

"Good, good. Mrs. Hudson makes a pretty good spread, doesn't she?" 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, unsure if Lestrade was trying to put him at ease or throw him off balance. "It was fine," he said. _Get to the point._

"It was excellent," Lestrade said. "Nice, tender turkey, crispy stuffing. Shame that Brez had to miss it, don't you think?" He stopped and waited, staring as if he expected Sherlock to say something. When Sherlock didn't comply, Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Coach Dimmock told me about this morning. Do you have anything you want to say about that?"

Sherlock brought a hand up to his chin as if thinking about it. "Not really."

"Really? Nothing?" Lestrade paused again but Sherlock was determined not to start babbling. "Did you punch Brez?"

"Yes."

"But you have nothing else to say about it?"

He pursed his lips. "It probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, in retrospect."

"No." Lestrade sighed and slid back so he was sitting fully on the corner of the desk. "Probably not. Would you like to tell me why you punched him? Twice, according to Coach Dimmock."

Sherlock shrugged. "He was being an arsehole."

Lestrade nodded. "Dimmock told me what he said. He will be disciplined, I promise. We don't stand for that kind of intolerance at Barts."

"Good." Sherlock swallowed. The look Lestrade was giving him was entirely too observant to be comfortable; Sherlock wished he would hurry up and tell him how many games he was going to have to miss.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "So. Is this the first time Brez has made this type of comment?"

Sherlock blinked. _Of course not._ Even if you didn't count all the joking slurs he and the rest of the team had made before they'd found out about him and John, Brez had since made his opinions on homosexuality very clear. But Sherlock wasn't about to say any of that to Lestrade. "I don't know. I walked into the weight room this morning, he called me a faggot and I punched him. There's not any deeper story behind it."

"Okay." Lestrade didn't sound like he believed it, but Sherlock didn't know what else he expected him to say. He stuck his chin out and tried to act nonchalant, tried to act _not gay_ , which was stupid and stereotypical and offensive and still something he felt like he had to do. 

Lestrade stared at him for a moment longer before repeating, "Okay." He scrubbed at the back of his neck with his hand and then continued, "Ah, the school has a disciplinary committee that deals with bias-related incidents like this. If you'd like to file a formal complaint with them, you can. I'm not sure—"

"I don't want to," Sherlock interrupted before Lestrade could start speculating about what such a complaint might do to the team's unity and image. He was pretty sure this entire conversation was Lestrade's way of letting him know he knew Sherlock was gay without actually saying it out loud. He didn't need to let even more people know by filing a formal report. 

"Are you sure?" Lestrade looked relieved; he clearly didn't want his players filing complaints against each other, either.

"Yes. Just keep him away from me, because I can't promise I won't punch him again if he opens his mouth."

Lestrade raised a hand toward him, index finger extended. "No. That is not acceptable. If he says anything else to you, tell me or one of the other coaches. No more punching!"

Sherlock sighed and gave a small shake of his head. "Fine."

"I'm serious, Sherlock. This entire incident is very disturbing. I don't recruit players who think harassing others is okay, and I don't recruit players who think throwing a punch is a good idea, either."

"I know. I don't—I won't do it again."

"You better not. Part of being a Bloodhound is supposed to be about developing your character. I don't even want you trash-talking on the court. I know I'm not sending anyone to the NBA, but I do want my players to grow into good men by the time they graduate."

Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek to stop himself from rolling his eyes at Lestrade's earnestness. He didn't come to Barts to build character; he came to play basketball.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "And you're lucky he didn't kick your ass."

Sherlock tried not to let the pride he felt at getting both his punches in show on his face. "I know."

Lestrade nodded. "All right, then. I'll talk to Brez and make sure he understands that what he said was unacceptable and that there will be further consequences if he does it again. And I hate to suggest it, since I prefer the team act as a team and put personal issues aside, but maybe the two of you should avoid each other for a little while. Give yourselves a chance to cool down."

Given that not only did he and Brez have three hours of practice together each day, they also lived in the same dorm, Sherlock wasn't sure how they were supposed to avoid each other, but he refrained from pointing that out, mostly because he wanted this conversation to be over. He nodded instead.

"So," Lestrade continued. "No more punching, no more name-calling, and you're both officially suspended from tomorrow's game. You'll have to be there, of course, but not in uniform. Wear that suit, it looks like you've managed not to spill anything on it." He hopped off the corner of the desk and straightened his own sports jacket. "Team policy says I could've suspended you both for up to three games, but I can't afford to lose two starters for that long. Even one game is going to be tough. We could really use Brez's size against Bentley tomorrow and I've been very happy with the looks you've been getting from three-point range in practice this week. So next time you decide to throw a punch, think about how it might affect the rest of the team, all right?"

Sherlock nodded again, wishing he had a witty and dismissive comeback but drawing a blank. He considered apologizing but didn't want it to sound like he was sorry for punching Brez when he really only regretted having to miss a game. 

Lestrade kept talking about tomorrow's game as Sherlock followed him out of the room. "I'll start Anderson and Noah, hopefully they can step up their scoring and it won't hurt too much. Though honestly I think you and John work better together than John and Anderson, which is weird, since they've played together longer." 

He kept talking but Sherlock judged it safe to stop listening, since he didn't really need to know anything about tomorrow's game if he wasn't going to play. He'd already learned what he needed to, besides what his punishment was to be. Lestrade still had confidence in his scoring ability, even though Sherlock himself hadn't been pleased with his games. And more importantly, though Lestrade might suspect that he was gay, he didn't seem to know that he and John were a couple. That was something, at least. It didn't make his stomach hurt any less or soothe his sore knuckles, but it did make him feel a little bit better.


	14. Chapter 14

The next day, Sherlock watched the game from the bench, dressed in his suit and sitting between Lestrade and the scorer's table, while Brez sat sulking at the far end of the bench. It was a close game, and the other team tied the score in the last few seconds of the second half. As they went into overtime, a small part of Sherlock hoped Barts would lose, if only to prove that he himself was essential to the team's success. 

In the end they won by a single basket, scored by Campbell off an assist by John, of course. Maybe if Sherlock—and Brez—had played, they would've won by a more comfortable margin. Maybe they wouldn't have. He didn't really want to think about it at all; he was just glad the game and his suspension were over. 

Afterwards, Lestrade gathered everyone in the locker room for his usual post-game analysis. Sherlock spent the time comparing everyone's stats from today's game to his own so far this season. Campbell had 14 points today and hit two threes. Sherlock knew he and Campbell weren't in competition—Campbell was bigger and could play as a small forward or as a guard, and they both were already in the starting lineup—but it still made him nervous to see others doing well in his absence. At least he still had a better shooting percentage than Anderson. Even though Anderson had done well today, he clearly wasn't about to replace Sherlock anytime soon. 

Sherlock slipped out of the locker room as soon as Lestrade finished reviewing the game. Everyone who'd played was starting to get changed and he had no desire to be accused of looking at anyone's bare chest again. He went back to his room and changed into his usual clothes, then waited for Anderson and the others to get back to the dorm so they could go to dinner.

The team was virtually alone in the dining hall, which Sherlock would've appreciated more if it didn't mean it was harder to avoid Brez. He'd hoped Brez would decide to eat every meal alone in his room from now on, but no such luck. Fortunately the rest of the team made an excellent buffer between them, and Brez apparently had no more interest in interacting with Sherlock than Sherlock did with him.

He ate quickly. When he stood up from the table with his empty tray ten minutes into the meal, John glanced up in surprise. "In a hurry?"

"I thought I'd head over to the gym for a bit. I haven't touched a basketball in two days and I want to go get some shots in."

John nodded and turned back to his plate. "Good idea. I'll be over when I'm done."

"You were on the court for 37 minutes of that game. You don't need any more practice today."

John looked up at him and tipped his head, stretching his neck. "True. I'll just come watch you."

Next to Sherlock, Anderson made a choking noise and dropped his fork; from farther down the table Jenkins said, "Yo, keep it in the bedroom."

John rolled his eyes. "By watch I mean I'm going to sit on the bench and tell him what he's doing wrong."

"You won't have much to say," Sherlock said, and left the table to a chorus of laughter and joking about his basketball skills and what everyone thought he and John would get up to in the gym. It was starting to get a little old, all the innuendo and insinuations about the two of them, and he could really do without the speculation about the specific acts they enjoyed together, but at least the teasing was friendly. One teammate who hated him was more than enough. He walked the long way around to the exit so he didn't have to pass by Brez.

The athletic center was dark and deserted; for a moment he thought it might be closed, and that he'd crossed campus in the freezing cold wearing his too-small winter coat for nothing, but the door was unlocked. He fumbled for the lights in the gym, stripped down to his shorts and t-shirt and pulled a cart of basketballs from the supply closet. 

His bruised knuckles objected for the first few shots, until his fingers got used to moving as they should again. He took shot after shot, from the top of the three point arc, the baseline, the foul line, lay-ups from both sides of the basket, using his left as well as his right hand. He made most of the shots, unopposed and alone as he was, but even though every move he made had years of practice behind it, something still felt off today. His movements didn't feel as smooth as they should and he couldn't lose himself in the routine as he usually did. He tried to assess why—it wasn't the sore hand, he knew, but the remnants of yesterday's anxiety, his anger at Brez, and his frustration at not being able to play in today's game that were all interfering. 

He stopped and held the ball on his hip, trying to regain his focus. _Go through the steps as if this were a game. Something simple: a free throw._ He stepped to the foul line and bounced the ball twice, letting his mind fill in the details that were absent: the referee with his whistle, the cheerleaders and the crowd, the other players lined up along the key ready to fight for the rebound if he missed. Brez would be there, the team's biggest player, in between two players from the opposing team. Sherlock still had to work with him—the thought of it set his teeth on edge. And John would be on the court, though most likely not lined up beneath the basket. As a guard he would be at the other end of the floor, knowing he wouldn't be much use trying to grab a rebound against much larger players but ready to defend should the opposing team get the ball and try to make a fast break. On the one hand it would be reassuring, knowing John was there with him. On the other it was nerve-wracking—the last few days had made him paranoid about how he and John acted when others were around.

Sherlock opened his eyes, dismissing the image of the bustle of a game around him, and concentrated on the basket. He took a shot, and another, and another, until he had used the dozen balls that the cart held and had to go retrieve the ones he had used. Not bad, ten for twelve: 83% was an excellent percentage for free-throws, but of course it was easier to make them when he was here alone and rested than it would be in the middle of a game. He should have made all twelve.

He gathered the balls onto the cart again and started over; he made four in a row before he heard the gym door closest to him rumble open. He took the shot he'd been planning and watched it swish neatly through the hoop before turning. _John._ A wave of warmth swept through him—he tried to push it back so he could keep his focus on shooting. He made three more baskets and then missed. John's fault—he had come so close that Sherlock could smell the soap he'd used when he'd showered after this afternoon's game. 

"Wish you'd been on the court today. I thought we were about to lose, when Noah missed those two free throws. Thank God Tay got the rebound."

"Yeah." Sherlock refrained from pointing out that Noah was in for Brez, not him. He took another shot, made it and tried not to think about the fact that John was standing next to him watching. Not that he minded the attention—it just made him think of what the two of them could be doing off the court instead. 

"You don't need to practice free throws," John said. "You should work on driving to the basket. You kept hesitating the other day in practice."

"I did not. I was just trying not to charge."

"Yeah? Show me."

"Show you?" Sherlock picked up another ball from the cart. 

"Yeah, come at me." John raised his hands, motioning toward his own body.

"You're not exactly a fear-inducing defensive presence, you know."

"Bet you can't get a shot off over me. Come on. Unless you're afraid to try?" 

"Oh, no. You asked for it." Sherlock put the ball to the floor as John dropped into a defensive crouch. Sherlock dribbled toward him, trying to protect the ball from being stolen but also planning to drive right into him, just to prove that he wasn't hesitant.

Instead of either stepping back or standing firm and drawing the charge, John grabbed Sherlock's right wrist, making him lose his dribble. The ball rolled away from them, across the floor.

"What the hell?" Sherlock didn't bother to chase after the loose ball. "That's a foul."

"The best defense is a good offense," John said, and threw himself at Sherlock. Sherlock reacted automatically, taking a stumbling step back before regaining his balance and catching John in his arms. John surged up for a kiss. 

Sherlock kissed him back briefly and then pulled his head away enough to say, "That is definitely a foul. Possibly a flagrant foul." 

"Mm, I'd say so. You should eject me."

"I'll eject you all right." He pressed closer to John and then felt John start to giggle against him. "What?"

"I have no idea what I meant by that, but it sounded dirty."

Sherlock laughed and pulled John tight again. A tiny part of him wanted to keep practicing but most of him wanted to grab John by the hand and run across campus until they got to one of their dorms. 

"You know," John muttered. "I can't stand the feeling of nylon shorts." He slipped his hand up Sherlock's groin and then shoved his hand into the waistband of his shorts, then into his pants. "Mm, there. That's better."

Sherlock tried to pull away. "John. We're in the middle of the court. Anyone could walk in on us." John's hand on his cock had banished all thought of continuing to practice, but he felt like he should make at least a token protest.

"No one will. All the guys know we're both here—they expect us to be doing this. They don't want to come watch. And the girls' team is staying overnight in Boston—they had an evening game at Bentley. And almost no one else is on campus this weekend." John pressed himself into Sherlock again; Sherlock could feel him, hot and hard, through the soft cotton jogging bottoms he wore.

Sherlock groaned and thrust against John's fingers. He knew they wouldn't get caught—the coaches had gone home for the day and the maintenance staff wouldn't be around to close up for hours yet. "If we get caught I'm blaming you."

"As team captain, I will take full responsibility."

"Mmm. You should." Sherlock moved his hips in time with John's hand; after a few strokes John wriggled his other hand in between them and into his own trousers. 

"Ah, this is—" John shifted his whole body against Sherlock's. "A little awkward." He pulled his hand out of Sherlock's pants and pushed at his chest. "Lie down on the floor, that'll work better."

Sherlock glanced back and down on the floor. "You want me on that hard wooden floor?"

"Hell, yeah I do." John shoved him again and Sherlock let himself crumple backwards. The floor was uncomfortably hard, and also very familiar—he couldn't count the number of times he had been laid flat in a game or practice. This was the first time he'd ever fallen to the ground willingly, and it gave him a whole new perspective on the court. 

John dropped down on top of him, caging him for a moment, then settled his upper body on Sherlock's torso and wedged his knee between his thighs. He reached his hands into both their pants again and started to stroke. Sherlock rocked up against him, but while the added pressure at his groin was enjoyable, the movement made his shoulder blades press into the floor. "This isn't working."

"Yes, it is." John ground their hips together, trying to prove him wrong. 

Sherlock could feel their cocks brushing through the layers of clothing, but the wood at his back kept pulling him out of the moment. He lifted his head; John's hair tickled at his nose. "The floor's too hard and there's not enough room for your hands between us."

"Stop doubting me." John lifted his torso a bit, lessening the pressure of the floor against Sherlock's back, and then pulled his right hand out of his own pants. He put that hand on the floor next to Sherlock’s ribs and shifted some of his weight onto the arm, which allowed him a better angle to pull at Sherlock's cock with his left hand.

"Jesus." Sherlock remembered not to let his head flop back too hard—whoever had invented pillows had been a genius, but if John kept up what he was doing Sherlock thought he might be able to forget about how hard the floor was.

"Is it working now?" John met his eyes from a few inches above and Sherlock swallowed and gasped. 

"Yes."

John grinned. "Don't you doubt your captain again."

"I won't." Sherlock groaned and thrust faster into John's hand; the floor was still uncomfortable but the pleasure coursing through the rest of his body was worth it. "Captain," he panted, the little bit of ridiculousness he felt at calling John that vanishing when he saw—and felt—the effect it had. John's hand sped up on Sherlock's cock and began to lose rhythm. Sherlock shoved his own hand in between them and curved his fingers over the crotch of John's shorts so John could rut against him more effectively. 

"Keep going, keep going," he said as John's hand started to falter. He brought his free hand up to squeeze John's arse through his trousers and John moaned and collapsed most of his weight onto Sherlock's chest, but he kept stroking and thrusting into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock tipped his chin down and mouthed at the top of John's ear, catching it between his teeth and pulling gently, then licking down to his lobe until John went rigid and still atop him.

Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand against the tip of John's cock; he could feel the wetness seeping through the layers of his jogging bottoms and underwear. After a few moments John moved his hand on Sherlock again. The pause in action had brought Sherlock even closer to the edge. He squeezed his thighs together and lifted his arse from the floor, trying to make as much contact as possible with John, who knew the exact pressure and speed needed to get Sherlock off. John twisted his wrist and gave one final pull and Sherlock was coming, his mouth pinched shut so he wouldn't shout even if no one else was around to hear. 

After a moment John pulled his hand out of Sherlock's pants and climbed off him. Sherlock rolled onto his side and took a deep breath, getting a whiff of the thick varnish that coated the floor. He was never going to be able to smell that again without remembering John writhing on top of him. Actually, it was worse than that. "I'm never going to be able to step onto this court again without thinking of this."

"Sorry." John didn't sound sorry in the least. 

"It's okay." Sherlock rolled up to sitting and looked around the gym, hoping it really would be okay. He didn't need to start getting hard every time he tried to drive past a defender. 

John stood up and wiped his hand off on the hem of his sweatshirt. He jogged over to retrieve the ball that Sherlock had been using before this started. "You going to stay and get some more practice in?" 

Sherlock eased himself to his feet and shook out his arms. "That'd be kind of pointless, considering none of my muscles know how to function properly at the moment."

"Sorry," John said again, and giggled.

"You are not." 

"No." John dribbled the ball once through his legs, then spun it on the tip of his finger. "Want to go again?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Back in your room," he said. Their next game wasn't until Monday; he had all weekend to practice .


	15. Chapter 15

"This is possibly the stupidest thing I have ever had to do." Sherlock slammed the genetics textbook closed. It wasn't even his textbook; he'd stolen it from Molly's bag while she was busy helping Brez proofread his term paper. "I am done with my exams. Why do I need to be here?"

"Team rules," John, Tay, Campbell and Anderson all answered as one, to a chorus of laughter from the rest of the room. 

The team had taken over the study lounge on the third floor of Sherlock's dorm, filling the tables and chairs with books, notes and laptops. Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach on the carpeted floor. He rolled over and sat up, pushing the book away with his foot. "Yeah. Well. There are a lot of team rules I break," he muttered. Jenkins, who was sitting on the sofa behind him, snorted a laugh.

"How'd your final go this morning, Sherlock?" Molly asked from across the room. She'd probably meant the question as a taunt, because he'd been frantically memorizing history facts last night. 

He smiled and leaned back against the sofa. Jenkins kneed him in the shoulder and Sherlock slid over a few inches, out of his way. "It went very well. I got an A."

"Did the grades get posted already? That was fast."

"Nope. I just knew everything on the test. Took me about 45 minutes for the multiple choice, then I needed an extra sheet of paper for the essay section, and I was still the first one done." He spread his arms out on the sofa cushion behind him and Jenkins kicked him again.

"You're in the way. If you don't need to study then how about helping someone who does?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "I can't memorize shit for you, Jenkins."

"Yeah, well, shut the hell up then, all right? Jesus Christ, if you're such a fucking genius why are you wasting your time playing basketball?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, running through a number of witty and cutting replies in his head. He opened his mouth and then saw that Jenkins was so intent on whatever he was studying that he wasn't even looking at him. Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around his knees, leaning out of Jenkins's way. 

Sherlock himself had only had two final exams, plus two term papers to write. The papers had taken him a few hours over the weekend; the history exam had been easy enough to cram for last night while the math test was so simple he hadn't even bothered to look at his textbook. He had registered for more difficult courses for the spring, though he doubted that at this point next semester he would be as worried as everyone else seemed to be right now. Just about the whole team had been on edge all week—even John had been more temperamental than usual, though to his credit his graduate-level classes were harder than the courses the rest of the team were taking. 

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was sitting at the table in the corner, notebook and textbook spread out around him, the tip of his pencil playing against his lips. He had his stats final tomorrow; Sherlock had tried to help him review earlier in the week, but their private study sessions never seemed to accomplish any actual studying. Sherlock thought John would do fine on the test anyway, as long as he didn't get nervous and make any stupid math mistakes, but that didn't stop John from worrying about it.

Brez and Molly were at the same table as John; as soon as he looked at John, Sherlock could feel Brez's eyes on him. He looked over at Brez, who scowled and then cut his gaze away to give the same scowl to John. Luckily, John was too wrapped up in his studying to notice the glare directed at him. Molly noticed, but all she did was bite her lip and then return her attention to the paper she was marking with a red pencil. The interaction was fairly par for the course—since the fight in the weight room, he and Brez had avoided any direct contact, but the tension was always there. Molly's reaction tonight was similar to how most of the guys on the team were handling it. They tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but Sherlock knew everyone felt uncomfortable whenever he and Brez were in the same room.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes—watching John chew on his pencil as he puzzled over a statistics problem was making his thoughts drift in dangerous directions. He stretched, whacking Jenkins in the calf on purpose and then jumping up out of the way. "I'll be back in a little while. Cover for me if Dimmock checks in."

"Where are you going?" Molly asked. She was supposed to keep track of attendance at their study sessions, Sherlock knew.

He had no idea where he was going; he just needed to get out of here for a few minutes. "Going to get a good coffee. I've been drinking the dining hall slop all week and I don't think I'm going to survive without something better."

John looked up from his textbook and Sherlock thought he was going to jump to his feet and offer to come with him, but all he said was, "Wear your coat. It's freezing out."

"Yes, Mum."

"And watch out for the ice in front of the library. I almost fell on my ass there this morning."

Sherlock shook his head and left, jogging down the hall to his room. The dorm was quiet; a lot of students had gone home for the Christmas break already, and those who hadn't were probably all studying, as well. Boring. Sherlock would rather be at practice. Normally at this time of night he would be, but because of exams they had only short practices this week, and no games. He was both grateful for the break and anxious to get back. They'd had four more games since Thanksgiving, and won three of them, but Sherlock had seen less playing time in each. Exams ended on Friday, then they had a two-day tournament in Connecticut. Sherlock had been putting in some extra time alone in the gym every day, hoping he'd be able to do well enough in the tournament that he could go home for Christmas break on a high note.

He grabbed his coat and then took his time walking to the student center—the coffee there was well worth braving the cold. He smiled when he saw that the girl working the cash register in the café was studying a chemistry textbook. He had registered for chemistry for next semester, which meant at least one of his classes should be worth attending. 

He dumped milk and sugar into his cup and then exited through the side of the building, walking smack into the middle of a cluster of people huddled around the door. There were always a few people outside here, students and staff smoking despite the campus-wide tobacco ban, but today there was at least double the usual number, all students, despite the cold temperatures.

Sherlock turned to shoulder his way through the small crowd, then stopped at the edge of the pavement, inhaling and trying not to let himself think about how enticing the smoke smelled, even though he hadn't had a cigarette in years, not since he'd started playing ball.

"Hey, man, you look like you need one of these." The scrawny, thin-haired boy looked like he might be able to produce an array of illicit offerings from his beaten-up backpack, but it was just a pack of Marlboros he held out to Sherlock. 

"No, I'm good, thanks." Sherlock thought of the lecture Anderson would give him if he saw him smoking and grinned.

The skinny kid raised an eyebrow. "No one comes out that door unless they want to walk through the smoke," he said, and held the pack up higher.

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, remembering how the sting of nicotine and tobacco enhanced the flavor of the drink. Or maybe he was just romanticizing the memory. He switched the cup to his left hand and reached for the pack with his right. One cigarette, just to relax a little, then he'd go back to the study group. Any more and he'd feel the effects in his lungs tomorrow at practice.

"Hey, you're on the basketball team, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded. While it might've been nice to be anonymous while violating team and campus rules by smoking, he did like being recognized. 

"I thought so. I saw you and thought, 'Hey, that's the white guy with the hair'." The kid nodded and then flicked his lighter and held it out for Sherlock, who grimaced and lit his cigarette. "My name's Billy, by the way," the kid said.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, and took a drag, knowing that his name didn't matter; he would continue to be "the white guy with the hair" unless his own on-court performances became more memorable and impressive.

The cigarette—he couldn't think of them as fags anymore, that word was tainted forever—didn't taste as good as he remembered, though at least it didn't make him cough. It was rather refreshing to stand around with a bunch of other smokers, though. After Billy's initial introduction no one tried to talk to him, which was a nice change from hanging out with his teammates, who were never really quiet. He didn't mind being around most of them when they were playing ball, but put them in a room together under any other circumstances and Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out. Though to be fair, it wasn't really their fault. Apart from Brez, most of them were pretty laidback. Sherlock just didn't really like people. Except John—he was the only exception.

Sherlock took another drag and let the smoke trickle out slowly. Maybe he wouldn't go back to the study session. Even if they found out, he would get no more than a chiding from Dimmock or Lestrade, especially since he was done with school for the semester. And he knew he'd aced all his classes—maybe they would let him skip the twice-weekly study halls in the spring once they saw his grades. 

Tonight he stood to benefit more from putting in another hour or so on the court, or maybe he could go for a run. It was too icy outside but there was always the athletic center. He wasn't crazy about doing long runs on the shorter indoor track, but he could do a mile or so and then focus on some sprint work. That sounded a lot more appealing than going back to watch everyone study, especially since John wasn't likely to want to skip out with him and go back to one of their rooms.

The door to the student center behind him opened and Sherlock turned his head to look, expecting another smoker, or some school employee come to tell them they weren't supposed to be out here, but no—it was John. Why the hell was John here? He stood holding the door open with his foot, scanning the small crowd until he found Sherlock.

"Aw, Sherlock, really?" The disgust in John's voice was very clear, though Sherlock was mainly concerned that he sounded far more like a disapproving boyfriend than an athlete who had just happened to see one of his teammates smoking. 

Sherlock controlled his first instinct to move his hand behind his back, as if hiding the cigarette from his mum, and instead brought it up to his lips for another drag so none of the other smokers would know that he cared what John thought. Sometimes it was easy to forget that they still had to hide from everyone besides their teammates. "Study group over?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"No." John stepped outside all the way and let the door close behind him, crossing his arms in front of himself for warmth. "I still have a few dollars left on my account for the semester so I thought I'd join you and get a muffin or something. But you weren't inside and I knew you hadn't gone back to the dorm."

"Yeah, well—" Sherlock waved his cigarette toward the others. "I got distracted." He felt guilty for smoking, which made him defensive. He tried to tell himself it was none of John's business if he wanted to smoke, but he could see the disappointment around John's eyes and that made him feel even worse. He could tell that the other smokers were all listening to the two of them now, and he knew John probably wanted to yell at him but was holding back because of that. It might make sense that one athlete would berate another for smoking, but it was really best if they didn't draw any attention to themselves.

"Anyway," John said, and scuffed his foot along the thick, broken ice at the edge of the grass. "Molly says Dimmock is probably going to stop by around 8. So you should probably head back."

Sherlock nodded. "I will. Soon as I finish—" He held up the hand with the cigarette.

"You better hope he doesn't smell that on you. Coaches hate smoking."

Right. Not John, the coaches. "It's just the one," he said. "I got nostalgic."

John twisted his lip. "Whatever. That's gross," he said, then glanced around at all the other people standing there smoking. "I mean, no offense to anyone, but it's gross." He grimaced and then grinned, his face changing from upset to that easy-going friendliness that made everyone like him. Maybe not the way Sherlock liked him, but still. 

Sherlock exhaled and stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the trashcan that sat next to the pavement. John's face brightened even more. He opened the door and held it for Sherlock. "Come on. I'll buy you a muffin," he said. Sherlock suppressed a smile and glanced back to see if anyone else found that offer to be overly intimate, but everyone seemed to have already forgotten he was even there.


	16. Chapter 16

After a week with only minimal practices and workouts, Sherlock was so glad to be playing again that he didn't mind getting up at dawn and taking a three-hour bus ride to the tournament on Saturday. John sat with him but spent most of the trip popping in and out of his seat to confer with the coaches and rest of the team. Dimmock was playing footage of the other teams in the tournament over the bus's screen system, but given that they'd watched this earlier in the week and had actually played one of the teams already, Sherlock didn't pay much attention.

They stopped for an early lunch on the road and got to the hotel shortly before noon. They were unloading their bags from the back of the bus when Anderson and Tay pulled Sherlock aside. He frowned and hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder. "I still need to get my other bag. What do you want?"

Anderson swallowed and glanced at Tay before speaking. "Um, a few of us were talking about it earlier, and, uh, we were trying to figure out the roommate situation for tonight, and, uh, it might be best if—"

"We don't think you and John should sleep in the same room." Tay clapped his hands together and gave him a wide smile.

Sherlock blinked and then nodded. "No, yeah. That's fine. That makes sense." They were sleeping four to a room; it would be awkward for everyone if he and John were together. 

Anderson smiled, clearly relieved. "Anyway, you know how they say it's bad luck to have sex the night before a big game." 

Tay flicked him in the back of the head. "You didn't say that before most of our games last year, when Sally was still willing to fuck you."

"Shut up, Tay," Anderson said, and stalked off toward the hotel.

"It's true, though," Tay said to Sherlock. "He never turned down the chance to have sex with her. It was like he knew she was too good for him and his days were numbered. Anyway. I'm sure there'll be time for you and John to slip off somewhere for a quickie."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't care about that, as long as I'm not in the same room as Brez."

"Nah, you and Anderson are sharing with Jenkins and Noah. I'm claiming John for the night, though, because he takes up the least room. Sorry!" He grinned and jogged off, leaving Sherlock to shake his head before returning to the bus to find the duffle bag that held his clothes.

Barts was playing in the first game, so they barely had time to dump their gear in their rooms and change into their uniforms before they were back on the bus for a much shorter ride to the University of New Haven. They were playing the home team, though given the way their respective seasons had gone so far, Barts was expected to win easily, despite New Haven's home court advantage.

New Haven was a small team, with a similar playing style to Barts's own: lots of shots from the perimeter, though they relied primarily on one player for the bulk of their scoring. Campbell was assigned to guard him, and managed to shut him down for most of the first half. Sherlock scored four points in the first two minutes of the game, but then hit a stretch where none of his shots would fall. John picked up the slack, though—he was on fire, hitting nearly every shot he took. After he sank his third three-pointer, New Haven started to double-team him, which meant that Sherlock was often open to take more shots himself, but he still couldn't make anything go in. Lestrade pulled him out with about ten minutes left in the first half.

Sherlock sat on the bench and gulped water while Lestrade lectured him about passing the ball. If his shots weren't falling he needed to be patient and look for players who were open. _Yes, yes, I know._ He reached for a towel to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to watch the game. Anderson had gone in for him; he wasn't scoring, either, but he was holding his own on defense and he and John were switching off on handling the ball, keeping New Haven on their toes. Campbell and Jenkins chimed in with a half-dozen points each, and Brez pulled down more rebounds than the whole New Haven team combined.

They entered halftime ahead by ten points, a comfortable margin, and everyone went into the locker room in an optimistic mood, though Sherlock was upset that he still hadn't scored even after Lestrade put him in back in the game for the last few minutes of the half. 

Unfortunately, New Haven managed to come out much stronger in the second half, buoyed by a home crowd that was stirred into a frenzy by their cheerleaders during halftime. Barts's cheerleaders wouldn't even be at the tournament until tomorrow. 

Sherlock did slightly better than he had earlier—he hit a three-pointer and then managed to make both foul shots after one of the New Haven players knocked him down, but it wasn't enough to help Barts pull away decisively. Instead, New Haven slowly climbed back into reach, until there were only four seconds left in the game and the score was tied. Sherlock got the ball on a pass from John. Everyone was shouting at him—Lestrade's voice cut through the others. "Now! Take the shot!"

 _Yes._ He knew what to do. All the missed shots from earlier in the game wouldn't matter if he could make this one, though he wasn't quite in position yet. _Three seconds._ One last dribble and then he squared up, took the shot. His defender was too slow, getting a hand in Sherlock's face but not until he had already released the ball.

The ball sailed toward the hoop, but Sherlock knew as soon as it left his hands that it was not going to go in. He watched it anyway, hoping he was somehow mistaken. He was not—the ball hit the rim and bounced to the side, but then Brez was there, lunging up to tip the ball back through the hoop and score two points. The game-ending buzzer sounded and the home crowd roared in disappointment. 

Jenkins and Campbell both rushed at Brez, jumping and hugging and chest-bumping in congratulations. The players on the bench joined in, catching Sherlock and John up in the celebration. Sherlock felt John's arm around his waist and stepped away, not wanting to appear to enjoy his touch while they were in public. Brez smirked at him and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before joining the rest of the team as they lined up to shake hands with the New Haven players.

Afterward, Lestrade herded everyone into an empty hallway outside the gym so he could review the game out of earshot of any of the other teams in the tournament. Sherlock sat down against the wall, putting as much distance between himself and Brez as he could. John sat on the floor across from him, next to Lestrade, who had dragged a chair for himself out into the hallway. Sherlock pretended to look at Lestrade but actually watched the muscles in John's throat and arms move as he finished off a bottle of Gatorade. 

Lestrade turned his chair backwards and straddled it, leaning forward to gesture as he spoke. "All right. Brez, you did a great job on the boards all night, and way to finish at the end. But New Haven never should've gotten that close. Everyone needs to elevate their defense—Campbell's the only one who stuck with his man reliably all night. We won't get away with that tomorrow." He went through the game point by point, dissecting what everyone had done right and wrong and how he thought they could do better in tomorrow's game. He barely mentioned Sherlock's performance, despite all the missed shots. Sherlock almost wished he would yell at him a little bit, just so he would know that what he did in the game actually mattered to the team. 

Lestrade finished up his lecture on today's game and started to talk about what they would face tomorrow. "Unless something drastic happens in this next game, Stonehill is going to win, so we'll be playing them tomorrow. We know how they play—and they know how we play." The two teams had faced each other already in the second week of the season and Barts had lost, overpowered by Stonehill's larger players. "So we're going to switch things up a little," Lestrade continued. "We're going to start with a bigger lineup, show them we can play under the basket, too. Hopefully we'll be able to pull ahead before they figure out how to adjust."

Sherlock switched his attention from John to focus fully on Lestrade, a sinking feeling in his gut, which intensified with Lestrade's next words. 

"Brez and Noah, you're both going to start, along with Tay and Jenkins. John, you'll be in there with the big boys—keep them in line. Jenkins will swing out to guard but most of our focus is going to be in the paint, at least to start. If Stonehill figures out how to defend against that, then Campbell and Sherlock and Anderson will take turns rotating in."

Lestrade went on, but Sherlock didn't hear anything beyond the lack of his own name in the list of tomorrow's starters. He had started every basketball game since the third game he'd ever played, back at Hartswood.

He stayed sitting in the hallway even after Lestrade finished talking and everyone else left, headed to the showers or down the hall to grab food from the vending machines. He wasn't sure what else he could have done in today's game. He'd missed shots, but he hadn't had any turnovers and Lestrade wasn't even angry or upset with him. But he was still pulling him from the starting lineup. 

He didn't realize how long he'd been sitting there, replaying the game in his head, until John came back down the hall, an empty candy bar wrapper in his hand. "Hey, come on. Next game's about to start and Lestrade wants us all in the stands to watch Stonehill."

"What do I care? It's not like I'm going to be playing against them tomorrow, anyway."

"Uh, yeah you are." John tossed the wrapper into a nearby trash bin and held out his hand, offering to help Sherlock up. Sherlock took hold and let John haul him to his feet, purposefully making himself limp so John had to work to pull his weight. "It's just a start," John told him. "You'll still get playing time." 

Sherlock scowled and John squeezed his hand and then let go. "You're only a freshman. You've got three more years of playing ahead of you. I hardly played as a freshman, and I didn't start a game until the end of my sophomore year. You'll start again."

Sherlock knew John was trying to be reassuring, but considering that John hadn't even had a scholarship his first two seasons on the team, their situations were hardly comparable. "I know I'll start again. But I'm not going to wait a year to do it." 

John shrugged. "Okay. You need to stop second-guessing yourself before you take a three and also make sure you relax your shoulders."

 _You're not my coach._ Sherlock bit back the instinct to snap at John and instead followed him into the gymnasium to watch the game. Stonehill College routed St. Michael's, just as Lestrade had predicted, which only cemented the fact that Sherlock would not be starting tomorrow's game. 

The team ate dinner at a restaurant across the street from their hotel, a boring American chain with bland food and cheesy Christmas decorations adorning the lobby. Everyone but Sherlock seemed to enjoy themselves, although John's good mood soured halfway through the meal when he checked his phone.

"Aw, crap. I got a C on my stats final."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and swallowed the bite of cheeseburger he'd just taken. "You passed." Half the team seemed to be thrilled when they got C's in their classes.

"Yeah, but that drops my overall average down low enough that I'm not going to be able to get the internship I wanted next semester."

Sherlock frowned. He remembered John talking about possibly having an internship in the spring, but he hadn't paid much attention. "So what are you going to do?"

"I can still intern at one of the hospitals in Albany, but I don't know how I'm going to get there. The campus buses don't go out that far." John sighed. "I'll have to get a car. My mom's going to flip out. We can't afford that. I'll have to see if my uncle can find me a junker that still runs."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to that. His own family could've easily afforded to buy him a car, except as a freshman he wasn't allowed to have one on campus, and he didn't even have a driver's license. 

"You can borrow Campbell's shitty little Saturn," Tay suggested. "You're like the only guy that fits in it anyway." 

Everyone around the table laughed, but Campbell nodded. "You can, long as you put gas in it for me."

"Thanks. I might have to," John said, but Sherlock could tell he wasn't comfortable with the idea of having to rely on someone else's car. Maybe his uncle would be able to find something cheap for him, and his mother could help pay for it. John was still on a scholarship, after all, and his sister was still in high school, so she didn't have to worry about tuition costs.

They finished the meal and went back to the hotel, where Sherlock managed to lay claim to the bathroom first, since he hadn't showered in the locker room. He took his time, enjoying the luxury of even a mid-range hotel bathroom when compared to his dormitory's shower stalls. When he turned off the water and cracked the door open to let the steam out it was unexpectedly quiet in their room—everyone had left. He dried his hair and came out of the bathroom, slightly curious about where everyone had gone but mostly happy to have a few minutes completely to himself.

The hotel wi-fi was crappy, but he had brought a couple of books with him, true crime stories he'd ordered from Amazon after he'd been forced to return all his library books at the end of the semester. He'd only read a chapter when there was a knock at the door. John. He glanced at his phone—yes, he'd missed a text from him a couple of minutes earlier, asking what he was doing. 

Sherlock opened the door to find John dressed in his pajama bottoms and a college t-shirt, which was what he slept in. He popped up on his toes to give Sherlock a quick kiss—there was no one in the hall—and then pushed his way past him into the room. 

"Everyone else went down to the pool. We've got at least half-an-hour, maybe more."

Sherlock glanced over at the book he'd left on the bed, then back at John. It wasn't that he was tired, exactly, but at the same time the thought of what John was suggesting was not as appealing as it usually was.

John sat down on the bed, tossing Sherlock's book out of the way.

"You lost my page." Sherlock bent to retrieve his book and tore a sheet of hotel stationery off the pad on the desk to use as a bookmark.

John glanced at the book and then bounced his hips on the bed. "Come on, we haven't messed around in forever."

It had been about three days. "That's because you had to study every night." And it hadn't even helped, given the results of John's statistics exam.

"Oh, it's my fault, is it? Come on. Lock the door and take your pants off."

Sherlock set his book down on the edge of the desk but didn't do as John said. "You know that superstition about not having sex the night before a game?"

"Seriously? Sherlock, you're like the least superstitious player I know."

"But what if there's something to it beyond just a superstition? Science. I mean, it does use up a lot of energy." He hadn't really thought about it before now, but it wouldn't hurt to save his stamina for tomorrow's game, to prove he could play once Lestrade finally put him in.

"We could do it slow and lazy." John laid back on the bed and slid his hand enticingly down the front of his own chest and groin.

Sherlock watched him and frowned. He just wasn't in the mood tonight—he wanted to be alone for a little while. "I don't think we should."

John sat back up. "Fine, suit yourself. Just sit here and read your murder book. Have fun. I'm going back to my room to take care of myself."

Sherlock watched him stalk out of the room. He knew he should go after him, but he still didn't want to have sex right now. Of course, once John had left, slamming the door behind him, he didn't feel much like reading, either, so he sat on the bed, wondering if this was a normal part of having a relationship or if he was just particularly ill-suited to being part of a couple. It wasn't like he had anyone he could ask about it, other than John. He sighed and laid back on the bed, waiting for the rest of the team to return and wishing this weekend were over already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I have it on good authority that sometimes, very occasionally, even 19-year-old boys don't feel like having sex. Huh.
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com), where I whine about writing this story and reblog pictures of a much older John Watson.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock slept poorly that night, and while he wanted to blame it on the fact that he had to share a bed with Anderson, he knew that wasn't the reason. Usually when he had trouble sleeping he turned his attention to basketball, recreating a court plank by plank in his head and then picturing himself playing. The repetition would soothe him to sleep, with the added benefit of reinforcing the playing instincts he'd trained into his body over the years. 

But this time when he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, all he could think about was John. And not even his usual distracting thoughts of John, the kind he didn't mind; no, tonight all he could think about was their fight earlier. Had it been a fight? An argument? They'd never fought before, and had only disagreed about the most minor of issues. Was John going to be angry with him in the morning? What was he supposed to do about it? Apologize? He should have just done what John wanted—he would've ended up enjoying it, and a nice orgasm might have helped him sleep better. Instead he woke up after a couple of hours and lay staring up at the blinking green light on the hotel's smoke detector, trying not to move so he didn't disturb Anderson or the others in the room, especially since they would actually see playing time tomorrow. 

He finally dozed off around dawn, waking only when Anderson, freshly showered and fully-dressed, hit him in the leg with a towel and told him to get up and get ready for breakfast; at least some things never changed.

Sherlock dragged himself out of bed and retrieved his phone from the desk where it had been charging. He'd had the sound turned off overnight, but John had sent him a text not long ago. _Meet us downstairs for breakfast._ Sherlock exhaled in relief that John was apparently still willing to speak to him. He threw on a hoodie over the clothes he had slept in and followed the others down to breakfast.

John was sitting at a table with Tay and Campbell, steadily working his way through a plate heaped with fruit and eggs and pastries. When he saw Sherlock he nodded and pushed an empty chair out with his foot, though he didn't pause in his eating. 

Sherlock grabbed a plate and joined the others who were in line for their food, wondering if Lestrade had chosen this hotel simply because it included a free unlimited breakfast buffet. The team was certainly doing its best to eat everything in sight—if he'd waited any longer there might not have been anything left for him. 

Once he sat down, he found that rather than talking about their upcoming game, everyone seemed to be more concerned with their plans for the holiday break, which mostly involved playing Xbox and eating. Sherlock wasn't particularly eager to go home and see his family, but John was excited that his mother and sister were going to pick him up that evening when they got back to Barts. "We're going to drive down to New York to visit my aunt and cousins for a couple days, then go back to Buffalo for Christmas." 

John stood up from the table so he could get a second plate of food. Sherlock tried to watch him without making it obvious he was watching; all the guys would assume he was ogling John from behind but what he was actually doing was trying to figure out if John was upset about last night's fight. If it had been a fight. He certainly wasn't acting upset, which was good, because even if Sherlock had wanted to apologize he couldn't have done it here. _Sorry I didn't want to have sex with you last night._ Yes, the rest of the team would definitely appreciate hearing that. 

After they ate they checked out of the hotel and headed back to the University of New Haven to watch the consolation game. New Haven beat Saint Michael's, which made Sherlock feel a little better about nearly losing to them yesterday.

Once they were on the court warming up, Sherlock couldn't stop dwelling on the fact that he wasn't going to start. That didn't help his concentration on the pre-game drills, but it didn't matter anyway because Lestrade was determined to go through with his plan to start the game with the bigger lineup.

His plan worked, at the beginning of the game at least. Stonehill came out ready to defend against a small team that liked to shoot from the outside, and they didn't know what to do with the cluster of big men who were attacking the boards. After Barts pulled ahead by six points in the first few minutes, Stonehill called a timeout.

Lestrade gathered everyone around him; Sherlock found himself in the unusual position of having to stand while the guys who were playing sat on the bench and mopped sweat and chugged water. "Nice job, everyone." Lestrade glanced over at the other team, huddled around their coach, who was frantically scribbling plays on a small dry-erase board. "All right, they're switching their lineup right now, so we'll do the same. Noah and Tay, you're out. Sherlock and Campbell, you're both in. Jenkins, back at forward. Play your normal game. We'll switch it up again when we need to."

Lestrade was right, again; Stonehill had reacted to their larger lineup and substituted players who were clearly not experienced guarding long-range shooters like Sherlock and Campbell. The first time Sherlock got the ball, his defender lunged awkwardly at him and Sherlock pivoted and passed the ball back to John. John faked a pass to Campbell and then threw it back to Sherlock, who took the open shot...and missed. Of course he missed. Why would he think he could make a shot? He hadn't been shooting well all season. Why would today be any different?

John kept feeding Sherlock the ball just as often as he passed to any of the other players, but after a couple more misses Sherlock started looking to pass himself instead of taking shots. Lestrade rotated the lineup twice more, benching Sherlock and Campbell in favor of the bigger players and then putting them back in for the end of the half. When the halftime buzzer sounded, Barts was still ahead, but only by one basket; Stonehill got better at responding each time Barts changed their strategy.

At halftime Lestrade herded them into the locker room. There were enough benches for everyone, but half the players sat on the floor anyway. Sherlock joined them, stretching and trying to stay hydrated with a bottle of Gatorade.

"All right," Lestrade began. "That wasn't bad, but we're going to have to step it up if we want to beat them. There's a reason Stonehill is tied with Appledore for first in the league." He used the whiteboard that hung on the wall to outline what he wanted to do in the second half. "I think if we spread the ball around enough, we can keep them guessing. They won't be able to focus on defending just one or two players if we're scoring from all over the court." He wrapped up his instructions and put the cap back on the marker he'd been using. 

From the back of the room, Brez muttered something; either it was unintelligible or Sherlock was too far away from him to hear it.

"What was that, Brez?" Lestrade asked, reaching for the suit coat he'd taken off when they'd entered the locker room.

"Nothing," Brez replied. 

Anderson, who was sitting on the bench next to him, glanced at Brez, cleared his throat and said, "He said 'We won't win unless the two faggots stop passing the ball to each other and give it to the real men'."

Brez's head shot up and Anderson quickly slid off the bench, out of his reach. Everyone stared at the two of them for a split-second, then Tay chimed in, "Yeah, that is what he said, all right." Brez turned his glare on Tay but didn't try to deny it. 

There was a heartbeat of frozen silence before Lestrade resumed pulling on his jacket. "I want everyone out on the court right now. Take some shots, loosen up again." He turned his back on the team and started walking toward the door before adding, his voice mild. "Except you, Brez. Put your street clothes back on. You're done for today." 

Lestrade let the locker room door swing shut behind him. No one said a word for a moment and then everyone started talking at once, a chorus of "Dude" and "Asshole" and "What the fuck?" directed mostly at Brez, but also at Anderson and Tay. Sherlock popped up from his seat on the floor and fled the locker room without looking at anyone. He wasn't afraid of Brez coming after him—Sherlock was the one who'd thrown the first punch last time, after all—but he was afraid of the implications of what Brez had said. _Two faggots._ Two. It wasn't just Sherlock being outed and harassed now—John had practically been named as well. 

Lestrade had Sherlock in the lineup to start the second half, but he pulled him almost immediately after he shot an air ball and then had the ball stolen from him as he tried to pass. Sherlock didn't really care; there were too many other thoughts crowding his mind to worry about the game. _Lestrade will know for sure now, and not just about me. He's going to know John and I are together. Can he kick us off the team for that?_ Yes, Barts was a Catholic school, but from what he had seen most of the students seemed to be fairly liberal-minded, and the school itself had a policy of non-discrimination. He'd read it. But there was also a school policy that said students shouldn't be having sex at all. Lestrade had mentioned it when Sherlock had tried to switch roommates at the beginning of the semester, though he'd made it clear that he would turn a blind eye on Anderson's relationship with Sally. _Is he willing to do the same with me and John?_

He tried not to look down the bench at Brez, who had changed out of his uniform and joined them a few minutes into the half, but watching the game wasn't much more enjoyable. John had clearly been rattled, as well; after he made two turnovers in a row Lestrade substituted Anderson in for him. John took the towel Anderson offered him as they switched places and dropped down on the bench next to Sherlock. It was the obvious spot for him to sit, since that was where Anderson had been, but Sherlock recoiled when their thighs touched for a moment, afraid that the coaches would see.

"You just need to settle down out there and run the plays at your pace, not theirs," Lestrade said, as if he thought John's mistakes were due to Stonehill's defensive maneuvers and not Brez's remark in the locker room. Sherlock bit his lip and made himself keep watching the game. John went back in after a few minutes, and then so did Sherlock, and he managed to score a few points, but it wasn't enough. Barts was no match for Stonehill's size, especially not without Brez to help beneath the basket. John did get himself under control enough to run their usual plays, but nearly everyone's game was a little bit off, and Stonehill was a good enough team to capitalize on every mistake they made. 

The game ended with Barts losing 76-65. Sherlock had six points, which wasn't even his worst performance of the season, although it sure felt like it. The only good thing he could say about the game was that Brez was more to blame for the loss than he was.

After they shook hands with the other team, Lestrade gathered everyone around him. "All right, go get changed. Brez, not you. I don't want you in that locker room. Come with me. The rest of you better be on the bus in 15 minutes." He gestured with one hand, a grabbing motion that was just short of touching Brez on the arm, and then turned on his heel and walked out of the gym. Brez trailed after him without a word, looking miserable, hunched over enough that he only dwarfed Lestrade by a few inches instead of nearly a foot.

For a brief moment Sherlock thought not having Brez in the locker room would make it less uncomfortable, but as soon as the door closed behind them, Campbell turned around and said, "Shit, what do you think he's gonna do to Brez this time?"

Tay dropped down onto one of the benches and bent to untie his shoes. "It's gotta be a multi-game suspension."

Campbell yanked his jersey off and shook his head. "No way, that would take him out for the Appledore game and we need him for that." 

"Screw it, we don't need him for anything," Tay said. 

Sherlock exhaled and turned his back to the rest of the room. Normally he liked locker rooms with an open layout like this one—lots of space for everyone to gather around the coach at halftime, less risk of bumping into the guy next to him as he changed—but now he wished for a secluded corner where he could get dressed in privacy. He grabbed his warm-up clothes and started pulling them on over his uniform instead of undressing. He had changed in front of the team dozens of times since they'd found out he was gay, but today he felt like he needed to hide himself again. Even though everyone but Brez seemed to be either supportive of or indifferent to him and John it was still hard for Sherlock to be comfortable when the focus turned to them like this. At least right now everyone seemed more interested in debating how losing Brez to a suspension would affect the team's chances of winning, until Jenkins spoke up.

"I don't give a shit where anyone puts their dick, honestly," he said. "But Brez needs to get over himself and shut the fuck up. His attitude's affecting the team whole team and that's not okay."

Orlando Greene, Brez's roommate, who was normally one of the least talkative players on the team, chimed in. "I know he's being an asshole about this but I still gotta live with him, you know? It'd be better if all this had stayed private between you two, there'd be no hard feelings." 

Sherlock turned around in time to see Greene gesturing at John, who was across the room, standing motionless. He'd taken his shirt off but was still holding it in his hands; now he wadded it into a ball and threw it behind him, toward his bag. "You know what?" John said to Greene, taking a step toward him, bare-chested apart from the black compression sleeve he wore over his shoulder. "You know what? We tried to keep it private. Remember?" He took another step. Sherlock marveled at how nearly everyone else took a step backwards, giving John space even though he was by far the smallest person in the room. "We did keep it private, until Tay had to go and open my bedroom door—"

"Hey, don't blame me!" Tay raised his hands in protest. "I didn't know, dude. I wouldn't have outed you on purpose."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't matter now, does it? You did out us and now we're losing games because of it and the whole fucking team is falling apart."

"Hey, whoa, take it easy," Campbell stepped toward John. "The team's not falling apart. Brez is a bigoted asshole but like Jenkins said, no one else cares whose dick goes where. But the rest of us still need to act like a team, all right? No talking shit about each other." He glanced over at Greene, who nodded and muttered an apology.

John continued to glare at Tay and Greene. After a moment Anderson stepped toward him as well. "If you think about it, we probably would've lost today anyway. Stonehill has only lost one game, and we've had a much better start to the season than anyone expected us to."

John inhaled. Sherlock tried not to think about how good he looked standing there shirtless, all his muscles tensed. Then John blew out his breath and said, "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry. Tay, it wasn't your fault, and I'm glad Sherlock and I don't have to sneak around anymore." He glanced over at Sherlock, who gave a brief nod, though he personally felt like they still had to do quite a bit of sneaking around and hiding of their relationship. "We're gonna beat them next time we play, though," John added and most of the tension in the room evaporated as he turned back to his locker to finish changing.

Sherlock knew he should feel relieved as well, but he didn't. He was the first one done getting dressed, mostly because he'd thrown his warm-ups and coat on over his uniform, but he lingered until everyone was ready, having no desire to get on a bus that held only Brez and the coaches. 

As they all filed out of locker room, they passed the Barts cheerleaders, who had come out for the day and done their best to keep the crowd on their side, not that it had helped the outcome of the game. Mary smiled and waved at both John and Sherlock; John gave her a half-hearted wave in return while Sherlock tried not to think about how John would be better off if he was still dating her instead. _He wouldn't be fighting with his teammates, plus he'd probably have done better in his classes without me to distract him._

When they boarded the bus, Sherlock saw that Brez was sitting all the way in the back. John took his usual seat near the front, close to the coaches because he liked to talk about their strategy for the next game. Instead of sitting next to him as he had on the trip out here, Sherlock chose a spot a few rows behind him. Lestrade must have noticed before now that they were almost always together, but Sherlock thought it best if they didn't emphasize that fact at the moment. 

Once they were on their way, Lestrade stood up in the aisle. "Hey. Everyone. Get those headphones off your ears and turn off your phones and listen to me. I don't care if it's Christmas break, we're still doing our game review. We've got a three-hour ride ahead of us—you'll have plenty of time to goof off after I'm done talking."

He spent the next half-hour going over the game in great detail, spreading the blame for the loss around fairly evenly in terms of how they had played. But once he was done talking about shooting percentages and rebounds and turnovers, he paused for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, "I know Stonehill is a good team, and I'm not actually upset that we lost. It was how we lost. You didn't play like a team out there." He stepped forward and made eye contact with Sherlock, but then moved on, walking down the aisle as he spoke. "The first half was fine, but I don't know what to say about the second half. I think everyone on this team—everyone—needs to take a good hard look at themselves. Think about why you're here and what it means to be on a team. You don't have to all be friends, but we do need to respect each other if we're going to be able to work as a team."

Sherlock didn't turn around to see if Lestrade made any special effort to single out Brez as he spoke, though he did hear him repeat what he'd said at Thanksgiving about not allowing any sort of intolerance or bigotry from his players. He closed his eyes and waited until he heard Lestrade return to his seat in the front before opening them again. 

He dug his iPod out of his backpack and flicked through his playlists. None of the music appealed right now, but he put the headphones on anyway; maybe it would discourage anyone from trying to talk to him. He thought he might fall asleep, considering how poorly he'd slept last night, but his mind wouldn't shut up enough to let him relax. He'd always prided himself on being able to control his thoughts—it had helped get him through rehab successfully and stay clean even though most of the kids he met there relapsed not long after they got out. But since he'd started at Barts—since he'd met John—it seemed his mind was increasingly out of his control. And maybe that was why he'd been playing so poorly lately. There was too much of John in his head, and not enough focus on the game. 

He'd never wanted a relationship before, but once he'd found himself in one he'd enjoyed it much more than he'd ever suspected he would. Though now it seemed there were at least as many drawbacks as advantages: he was playing poorly because he wasn't devoting enough attention to the game. John wasn't doing as well as he should in school for the same reason; despite trying to help him cram at the last minute, Sherlock knew that he had kept him from studying as much as he should have throughout the semester. And now their relationship was having repercussions beyond the two of them: the whole team seemed to be fracturing around them. They might have won the tournament today if he and John weren't together. And keeping everything a secret from the coaches and the rest of the school was frustrating and tiresome. He'd always thought of himself as a someone who could handle anything, but this thing he had with John seemed to involve a lot more than just sex and it was exhausting, to tell the truth. Was it even worth it, trying to balance everything? 

His phone beeped with a text: _John._ He flicked on the display and read the message. _Coach and Brez meeting with AD after Xmas._ Sherlock didn't reply; he had nothing to say. Presumably the elevation of the matter to the Athletic Director meant that Brez would face more than another single game suspension, but beyond that, Sherlock didn't want to think about it. He picked up his iPod again and stabbed at the screen until it started to play, trying to drown out his own thoughts.

Two hours later, Lestrade stood up as the bus pulled into the school parking lot. "Okay, listen up. I know today was kind of a disaster, and I think you all know what we did wrong. But for now I want you to forget about that for a little while. Go home, enjoy being with your families, have a good Christmas, and come back ready to play. It's only a week off, so most of you can probably get away with eating whatever you want and still be in playing form when you get back. I wish I had that luxury." He patted his stomach and almost everyone laughed.

The bus came to a stop and everyone rushed to get off, eager to get home for the holiday. Sherlock stayed in his seat, letting everyone else go ahead of him. 

"Hey, Sherlock, what are you doing?" John stuck his head inside the bus, then stepped up onto the first step. It was empty except for the two of them. "You gonna sit on the bus all night? Don't you want to go home?"

"My flight's not until tomorrow."

"Yeah, well. Can't stay on the bus all night." John dipped his head to look back outside; almost everyone had already left, headed off to their dorms to switch their matching team bags for suitcases before going home. "I got your bag for you." He turned and hopped down off the step. Sherlock could see him waiting expectantly on the pavement below. He sighed and clambered out of his seat and off the bus. 

John nodded at Sherlock's bag where it sat on the pavement and picked up his own backpack and duffle. "My mom and sister will be here in about thirty minutes—Harry just texted me. So. Lucky you gets to meet them." He let out a big breath and Sherlock realized he'd just been invited to meet John's family—and that the prospect seemed as intimidating to John as it did to him. John laughed. "Wow, I mean, they did meet Mary but this is still a little weird for me." 

"You've told them about me?"

"Yeah, of course I did."

 _Of course he did._ Sherlock's parents knew about John, too, though Sherlock had never precisely told them. Mum just knew. But that hadn't mattered because Sherlock's parents were in London, and they were never going to meet John. Whereas John's mother and sister would be here in thirty minutes. Sherlock wasn't ready for that. He wasn't ready for any of this. 

He swallowed, glancing around the parking lot. Their teammates and coaches were all gone; the bus driver was closing up the luggage compartment where the bags had been stowed. _John wants me to meet his mum._ "No."

"What?" 

"I—I don't think I should meet your mum and sister," Sherlock said.

"What?" John repeated, and frowned at him, fiddling with one of the straps on his backpack. "No, it's okay. They know about you. They've known I'm bi for a long time. Harry's gay, you know. It'll be fine."

"No, it's not—" Sherlock took a deep breath, the half-formed idea that had been lurking at the edges of his mind finally coalescing into certainty. "We can't keep doing this."

John narrowed his eyes at him but didn't say anything, so Sherlock clarified. "This." He gestured at John and then at himself. "Us. The whole thing. It's not—it's not working, we have to stop." 

John blinked. "Are you breaking up with me?" His brow furrowed as if he were working through a difficult problem, and his voice rose. "Are you seriously fucking breaking up with me?" 

"Yes." Now that he'd said it, Sherlock felt a little better.

"What—why?" 

Sherlock didn't know how John made his tone of voice change so quickly, from shock to anger to sadness. "It's just causing us both a lot of problems," he said. "I'm sorry." He saw John's expression and scrambled for something to say that would make this easier on him. "You could go back to Mary, you'd be happier with her."

"What the fuck, Sherlock? I don't want to be with Mary anymore, and she doesn't want to be with me."

"Come on. I saw the way she was cheering you on today."

"She's a cheerleader!" John shouted. "She was cheering for us all! What kind of drugs are you on?" John did a double take at his own words and took a step closer to Sherlock to ask, his voice low and earnest. "Did you take something, Sherlock? Are you having a relapse? Is this what you're like when you're high?"

Sherlock shook his head. "John. I just—"

"Why? We never fight or anything! Even when I saw you smoking I didn't give you a hard time about it even though it's a disgusting, stupid habit." 

"It's not about fighting. It's.... Look, I told you the first day we met that relationships weren't my area, remember?" 

"Yeah, but. I thought that changed. I thought you liked—this." John made a motion with his hand, gesturing between himself and Sherlock. 

"I do—I did—it was fun," Sherlock said. "It just doesn't work. There's too much other stuff. It's too hard." He was doing a horrible job explaining himself, although it had seemed fairly straightforward in his head. "Maybe if things were different, if we weren't in school, or on the same team or—" 

"So basically you're saying you're too immature to handle a relationship." 

Sherlock ignored that. He'd rather have John blame him than try to talk him out of his decision anyway. "It's too distracting. It's not worth it." 

"Not worth it? What the fuck? You're saying I'm not worth it?" 

"That's not—" 

"Fuck you, asshole. You'll be sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, which only seemed to infuriate John further.

"I came out to the whole goddamn team because of you!" 

"So did I," Sherlock said, to John's back. John was walking away from him, now, his anger evident in every line of his body, even weighted down with two bags and hidden beneath a winter coat. Part of Sherlock's brain was insisting that he'd made a terrible mistake and needed to run after him—hearing John yell and curse at him made it easier to ignore that urge.

The bus driver must have gotten an earful, though he had discreetly disappeared at some point. No one else was in sight. Sherlock took a deep breath, reminding himself that this was for the best for both of them, and started walking toward his dorm, careful to go slowly enough that he would not catch up to John.

Before he reached the dorm he heard someone shout his name. It was Tay's voice; Sherlock looked up and saw that Campbell was with him. They'd been headed toward the student parking lot, dragging suitcases behind them, but now they veered in his direction. _Shit, shit, shit._ John must have told them—the three of them had been teammates and friends for years. They were going to kill him for dumping John.

He paused for a moment, then kept walking toward them. There was no point in running away. 

"Yo, dude. You leaving tonight or tomorrow?" Tay asked.

"Er, tomorrow," Sherlock said, surprised his voice sounded as normal as it did. 

"Okay. Have a Merry Christmas." Tay raised his hand for a fist bump, which Sherlock returned even as he waited for it to turn into a punch.

"Nah, it's 'Happy Christmas'," Campbell said, and without letting go of his suitcase gave Sherlock a rough, one-armed hug. "Have a safe flight, all right? See you in a week!"

Sherlock nodded and then turned and fled toward his dorm as fast as he could without actually running. _He hasn't told anyone._ John's mother and sister weren't here yet—if he wanted to, Sherlock could go and apologize to him, say that he had made a mistake. He glanced across the Quad. He could see John's building, though his suite was not visible from here. _No._ He wasn't going to go running after him. He had made his decision and he would stick by it. They had a week off during which they wouldn't have to see each other, and when they got back Sherlock would be able to focus on basketball again and everything would be better. He reached into his pocket for his ID card so he could open the door to his building. He had to be at the airport in ten hours; he didn't expect to sleep tonight but he had nowhere else to go.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock's mother picked him up from the airport, which was the worst of all possible options. If his father had picked him up they would have chatted about basketball and the weather, and if it had been Mycroft they wouldn't have spoken at all, but no, it was Mum. When she met him in the terminal she took one look at him and immediately asked what was wrong.

"Nothing, just a long flight," he said. He'd spent the whole time thinking about last night, of course, trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing in breaking up with John, but he wasn't about to tell his mother that. He spun his suitcase around so he could pull it behind him, setting off at a pace that he hoped would prevent her from keeping up with him.

She kept up, and kept her mouth shut, surprisingly, at least until they were in the car. "You never told me how your final exams went."

"Fine. I got A's on both my tests and three A's and a B overall for my semester grades."

"Which class was the B?"

He scoffed. "Ethics and Values. It was a joke course. It wasn't worth getting up early three days a week just to try to get a better grade."

Mum glanced sideways at him, giving him a dirty look without taking her eyes from the road. He snorted and squirmed back in his seat, hoping she was done asking questions. She wasn't—she wanted to know how the tournament had gone, so he gave her a quick rundown, leaving out all the off-court drama that had accompanied it. That seemed to satisfy her for a while, until they were only a mile or so from their house, when she asked, "Did something happen between you and John?"

He couldn't stop his left hand from tightening on the door handle, but he thought he otherwise hid his reaction quite well. "Why would you think that?" 

"You didn't mention him once when you told me about your tournament, and you haven't looked at your phone since I picked you up. You've always been obsessed with checking your phone, and I assume you would be even more so now that you have a boyfriend."

To Sherlock the word "boyfriend" implied hearts and flowers and asking each other out on romantic dinner dates; he and John had never used that term. "He's not my boyfriend, Mum."

"No? Then what do you call it?"

"Nothing. He's not anything." _Not anymore._ He clenched his jaw and again tried to convince himself he had only done what was necessary.

"Oh." She was silent for a moment and Sherlock thought she was done but then she said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He shrugged. "Don't be. It was a bad idea in the first place." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, not to check for a message from John because he knew there wasn't one, but to signal to his mother that the conversation was over. 

Rather than taking the hint she took one hand off the steering wheel and settled it on his knee. He flinched and tried to twist sideways, out of her reach. "I know it hurts when someone breaks up with you, but it will get better, I promise," she said.

She was right, breaking up did— _Wait, what did she say?_ "John didn't—I'm the one who broke it off with him." It sounded a lot worse when he said it out loud like that. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing she would drive faster.

Instead she slowed down as she rounded a curve in the road. "You—really? Why? You sounded so happy every time you mentioned him."

"What are you talking about?" He certainly hadn't discussed his love life with her during their weekly phone calls. "All I ever told you about was basketball."

"Sherlock, in all the years you've been playing ball, never once have you spent any time telling me about the other players. But after your calls this past semester, I know John's statistics as well as yours. He's done very well after being out injured for a year, hasn't he?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then turned to look out the window, unwilling to acknowledge what it meant that he'd apparently been so eager to gush about John to his mother. Luckily, they were nearly home so she didn't have time to pry any further, though he could tell she wanted to. 

He spent the next few days making sure she didn't have an opportunity to corner him and force him to talk. For once he was grateful that Mycroft still lived at home—when he was around, Mum was less likely to bother Sherlock. And their large extended family also helped: a week spent having to visit far-flung aunts and uncles meant less time to think about John. He didn't even mind being dragged to church on Christmas Eve. When they got back home they opened gifts, and while that no longer brought him quite the excited thrill it had when he was a child, he still looked forward to the tradition. 

Christmas Day itself, however, proved to be more of a challenge. He couldn't shake the feeling that the day would've been better if John were there—which was ridiculous, because there was no way John would have been there. Even if they were still together, John would've been home in New York while Sherlock was here in London with his parents and Mycroft. Any visions of a cozy Christmas cuddled up by the fire or playing carols on his violin for John were just stupid fantasies, no doubt conjured by those sappy films Mum always watched at this time of year.

He managed to confine those thoughts to the back of his mind until early evening, when they returned from dinner at his cousins' house. He was hanging up the new wool coat his parents had given him when his phone chimed—John's text alert, the only one he had ever customized. No one else could have known what the sound meant, but they all noticed the way he suddenly went still where he stood in the hall.

He nearly yanked the phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket before coming to his senses. He brushed his hands down his lapels instead, trying to appear uninterested.

"Oh, come on," Mycroft said, elbowing Sherlock out of the way so he could hang up his own coat. "We all know that must be from your boyfriend. You have to read it."

"No, I really don't."

"What if he misses you?" Mycroft had his back to Sherlock, but his voice held only some of the usual mocking tone he reserved for expressions of sentiment. Sherlock had no idea what to make of that. "Perhaps he's changed his mind and would like to get back together."

"Oh, for God's sake." Though it was reassuring to know that Mum hadn't talked to Mycroft about him and John, this was ridiculous. "Why does everyone assume he's the one who dumped me?" 

Mycroft turned around to look at him, his expression quickly morphing to his usual disdain as he met Sherlock's glare. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I've seen the photos on your school's website. I know what this John fellow looks like. Of course I assumed he would be the one to end the relationship."

"Mycroft!" Mum insinuated herself in between them. "Don't insult your brother. Sherlock is a fit, attractive young man, too."

Mycroft frowned at her and then wrinkled his nose at Sherlock. "Maybe...distinctive looking? I'll give you that. Still." He sniffed and stepped around him, lifting his chin. "Read his text already."

Sherlock scowled but couldn't keep himself from pulling the phone from his pocket. He stabbed at the screen until John's text popped up. "It just says 'Merry Christmas'." He rubbed his thumb over the words and felt himself deflate a little, though he hadn't even known he wanted to hear something more from John.

He pushed past Mycroft and his mother into the sitting room, dropping his phone onto the coffee table so he could sprawl in one of the armchairs in front of the woodstove. 

His father turned away from his attempt to kindle the fire, frowning at the phone Sherlock had dropped. "Aren't you going to text him back?"

"No. Why would I?" He stared up at the ceiling and debated whether it was worth it to get up and go to his room so he could escape from his family's good intentions.

Mycroft sat down in the chair across from him. "Sherlock. We've all been watching you pine after him all week."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. I just told you, I'm the one who dumped him."

"And you've regretted it ever since." 

"Shut up, Mycroft. You have no idea what you're talking about." This was unnerving—since when did Mycroft have emotional insight?

"I've been watching you mope around the house all week," Mycroft said.

"And I've been watching you nick sweets from the kitchen cabinet and hide the wrappers in the bottom of the bin."

"Sherlock." It wasn't just Mycroft who said his name disapprovingly—both his parents joined in. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved himself up out of the chair. He grabbed his coat from its hook in the front hall, appreciating the way it billowed out when he put it on; no one could see him slip the pack of cigarettes out of Mycroft's coat pocket and into his own.

He walked outside to the gate at the end of their front yard and lit a cigarette. The coat kept him warm and smoking gave him something to do besides think about going back inside for his phone so he could re-read John's message. _It's only two words—how much meaning could be in them?_

He was pulling a second cigarette from the pack when he heard the front door open behind him. Of course. God forbid he be allowed to be alone for more than five minutes. He tucked the box back into his pocket and dropped the glowing butt of his first cigarette to the ground before turning to face Mum.

"I sincerely hope I don't need to search your room to make sure that's the only poison you've been ingesting."

"Please. These are Mycroft's," Sherlock said, pulling the pack out and flipping it toward her. She caught it and slipped it into the pocket of her own coat.

"Well. I'll have a word with him later. He's right, though, you know."

He frowned at her, still finding it hard to believe that Mycroft could be right about anything.

"You have been moping around the house, pining all week."

"I have never in my life pined, Mum." He wished he'd kept the cigarettes so he could light another one and use it to ward her off.

"Hmm. Why did you break up with him?" She leaned back against the stone wall that ringed the lawn and drew her coat tight, as if settling in for a long conversation. 

Sherlock winced, not quite believing they were having this discussion even as he knew he needed to talk to someone about it. The question had been plaguing him all week. Sometimes he was still certain he knew the answer—his reasoning had seemed sound enough at the time—but more often he suspected he had made an enormous mistake. _I miss him._ He swallowed and shrugged, trying for nonchalance. "It just wasn’t working. I'm not in school so I can find someone to date, anyway."

"Sherlock." She made a tutting sound. "It's been a long time since you've sounded as happy as you did over the last few months. And a long time since you've been as miserable as you've been this past week."

 _I know._ He dropped his eyes. 

Mum stepped closer. "I know that first relationships often don't last, and I don't want to talk you into doing something you don't want to do. But make sure you're doing it for the right reasons."

"Mum, please." It was difficult to sound as indifferent as he wanted to, but then he'd never been able to fool her anyway.

"Maybe you two are all wrong for each other. I haven't met John. But I feel like I have. I know he's the smallest starting player in the entire league but so far this year he's averaged 12 points and 5 assists per game. I know he's smart enough to have been admitted to medical school and that he's dedicated enough to your team to have deferred it for a year. And I know you like him and he likes you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tipped his head back, feeling the collar of his new coat scratch along his hairline. Why did his mother always think pointing out the obvious was the way to win an argument?

"I don't want to advise you to do something you'll regret, and you're certainly too young to worry about being tied down long-term to one person, but if he was making you happy.... You should let yourself be happy."

"It's more complicated than that, Mum." He didn't really expect her to understand. 

"Of course it is. Life always is. But you're a smart boy. You'll figure it out." She smiled and he braced himself for a hug, but all she said was, "It's cold out here. Come on inside. We'll have pudding and then I'll get out my violin and we can play together." She pushed herself off from the wall and strode toward the house, not pausing to check if he was following. She had his cigarettes, though, and he was starting to feel the cold even through his coat, so he followed her back into the house.

His phone was right where he'd left it on the coffee table. He picked it up and turned it on and then sat down in the chair and turned it off again.

Mycroft looked up from whatever he was doing with his own phone. "Don't text him. Phone him."

"I didn't say I was doing either. And are you seriously trying to give me relationship advice?"

Mycroft stared him down. "If you can hear his voice you'll be better able to tell what he's thinking."

Sherlock shook his head and got up from the chair, sliding his thumb over the screen of his phone as he thought. He went back to the front door, but didn't go outside this time. If he stood here he could easily escape outdoors if he needed privacy but still have the reassurance of knowing his family was close by. Which just went to show how confused this whole relationship thing had made him. _I'm taking advice from Mycroft, for God's sake._

He pulled up John's text again— _Merry Christmas_ —took a deep breath, and hit the button to place a call.

It took a long moment before he heard the phone ring, but once it did John answered almost immediately. _That's good, right?_ Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hi. John. Um. I got your text."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." He swallowed. _Come on, pretend this is a normal conversation._ "Thank you. And Merry Christmas to you, too. Are you having a good day so far?" God, he sounded like he was talking to some distant relative he hadn't seen in a decade.

"I've had better," John replied.

"Oh." He paused, then made himself keep going. "I, er, I've been thinking about...stuff." He winced at his own words. _Maybe I should've registered for a Public Speaking class next semester._

"Stuff?"

"Yes. You know. Everything." He turned his back to the sitting room, where Mycroft was pretending to read the newspaper instead of listening. "Everything I said to you."

"Yeah? And?" John's voice was flat and Mycroft was wrong—Sherlock couldn't tell at all what he was thinking. He should've Skyped him instead. 

"I think...." He blinked his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, knowing what he had to say. "I'm sorry."

"You think you're sorry?"

"I am sorry. I'm sorry. I am." 

John didn't say anything, but Sherlock could hear each breath he took, as if they weren't separated by the width of an ocean. He curved his hand more tightly around his phone and pressed on. "Do you think we could try again?" 

A long pause and Sherlock thought he wasn't going to reply at all, but then he said, "I don't know. I want—" Pause. "I don't want to talk about this over the phone. How about we wait until we get back. I want to be able to see your face."

Sherlock hesitated only a second. "Yes, okay. In person, yes." He ran into the sitting room and grabbed Mycroft's computer from where it sat on an end table. Mycroft looked on in shock as Sherlock opened the laptop and then thrust it at him. "I can come back tomorrow instead of Sunday," he told John. "I just need to rebook my flight." He wiggled the fingers of his free hand at Mycroft so he would start the search for flights. Mycroft wrinkled his nose once and then started typing.

Sherlock turned his back to him again so he could focus on John, who still sounded hesitant. "I won't be able to get back to school until the late afternoon or evening. My uncle found me a car that we can afford but I have to go pick it up in the morning, so that might take a while."

 _He didn't say no._ "All right," Sherlock said. He glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, who was still hunched over his keyboard. "I could fly in to Buffalo." It was a risky suggestion—he was assuming John would forgive him and then drive him nearly 300 miles back to campus, but it seemed a worthwhile risk. 

He heard John inhale before he answered. "Okay. I can meet you at the airport."

"Good. Good." Sherlock tried to keep his voice level. "It probably won't be until early evening." 

"5:34 pm Eastern Standard Time," Mycroft supplied, and Sherlock grinned at him, felt stupid for grinning, then grinned even harder.

"I'll text you my flight details," he told John. 

"All right," John said. "I—okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock said, and ended the call, feeling a surge of joy for the holiday that he hadn't felt in years.


	19. Chapter 19

Flying to Buffalo instead of Albany added a couple of hours to Sherlock's total travel time, which meant more time for him to worry about whether John was really going to take him back. He held off on the urge to text him as soon as the wheels of the plane hit the ground, afraid to find out whether John was waiting for him or if he'd decided to cut his losses and leave Sherlock on his own.

He'd already gone through customs when he'd changed planes in Chicago, so all that he had to do was cross the tiny airport and collect his luggage. He shifted his backpack and violin case to his left side so he could grab his suitcase off the carousel, then nearly dropped everything when he turned around and saw John standing by the doors that led to the parking lot. 

They made eye contact across the terminal, but John didn't move, so Sherlock took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on the suitcase, and pushed his way through the small crowd of people still waiting for their bags.

John lifted his chin in greeting but didn't say anything. Sherlock let his eyes flick over his face, trying to tell if the rigid set to his jaw meant John was angry or as nervous as he was. Either way, Sherlock had nothing to lose at this point. He forced himself to relax enough to smile. "Hi."

John stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "So. I—um, how was your flight?"

"Fine. Long." Somehow he felt even more awkward than he had during their brief phone conversation yesterday. 

"Yeah, guess it would be." John took his left hand out of his pocket and started to rub the back of his neck. "Well, uh. Aw, shit, Sherlock. Look at you. Did you get that coat for Christmas?"

"Yes." Sherlock wrinkled his brow, trying to interpret John's tone. 

"Looks good on you. Shit. Shit."

"Sorry, what's wrong?" He twitched his shoulders, making the coat swirl out a bit. He did like the way it looked, though it hadn't been the most practical thing for traveling. 

"Nothing. You. I mean—" John waved both hands at Sherlock and then shoved them into his pockets again. 

When several seconds passed without John saying anything more, Sherlock gave up on trying to figure out what he meant. Maybe it would be easier to understand him if they were somewhere less crowded. Most of the luggage on the carousel had been claimed, but there were still plenty of people milling about. "We should probably move out of the way." 

"Yeah. It's just." John let out a sigh. "I kind of want to punch you right now."

Not the reaction Sherlock had hoped for, though it was entirely understandable. He doubted John would punch him in the middle of an airport, though. John must have seen the little quirk of his lips that Sherlock couldn't hide because he growled and took a half-step closer. Maybe he was wrong—maybe John would take a swing at him. He did rather deserve it, after all. Maybe he'd let him get one punch in, then put a stop to it before airport security got involved. If he could put a stop to it. He set his violin case down on the floor and braced himself.

Sure enough, John clenched his left fist and then surged forward, but before Sherlock could try to stop him, he was up on his toes and kissing him, one hand on each side of Sherlock's head to hold him still.

Sherlock let his backpack slide down to hang awkwardly from his elbow and kissed John back, the immense relief coursing through him completely obliterating his usual reservations about being intimate together in public. They were hundreds of miles away from school and neither of them were wearing any of their team gear so there was little risk of anyone recognizing them. 

It was a fairly chaste kiss, by their usual standards, and lasted only a moment or two, but by the time John pulled away, smiling sheepishly, Sherlock felt at ease in a way he hadn't been in weeks. He cleared his throat and glanced over John's shoulder at a woman his mother's age who had stopped to stare at them. She hurried on her way when she saw his glare and he turned back to John, not even trying to keep himself from grinning stupidly. "So I guess this means you forgive me?"

"I guess so." John licked at his bottom lip and then scrubbed a hand across his mouth. "Jesus, Sherlock. I had this big speech planned, about how I still wanted to be with you, but I didn't think it was a good idea because I didn't think I could trust you anymore. But then I saw you and it was like, fuck. Of course I forgive you." 

"Just like that?"

John shrugged. "I mean, I'm still basically pissed off with you, don't get me wrong. But have you seen yourself in that coat?"

Sherlock smirked and bent over to pick up his violin case. "So you just want me for my looks."

"Well, yeah. I mean, you're a complete dickhead otherwise. Let me carry something for you?" John reached for the violin and Sherlock hesitated only a moment before handing it to him. 

He followed John out into the parking garage, to the car John's uncle had helped him buy that morning. Sherlock nodded and made agreeing noises as John pointed out its different features. He knew just enough about cars to recognize that a Chevy Malibu with 180,000 miles on it wasn't a particularly desirable model, but John seemed so pleased with it that he didn't say anything, even when the trunk wouldn't pop open. John had to unlock it with the key so Sherlock could put his luggage in. John's over-stuffed duffle was already in there, and Sherlock could see a couple more bags in the backseat. "Are we driving back to Barts tonight?" He'd assumed they would go back to John's house and then make the drive across the state tomorrow.

"Yeah. I mean, my mom and sister wanted to meet you last week, but they weren't exactly happy with me when I told them I was going to pick you up today. After, you know."

"Oh." He didn't know what to say to that, but he also didn't really care if John's family forgave him, as long as John was willing to take him back.

John hadn't eaten dinner, and it had been hours since Sherlock's meal on the plane, so they stopped for burgers at a diner, where they spent most of the meal arguing about fries versus chips. When they emerged from the restaurant, it had started to snow; Sherlock drew his coat close around him. "I need a scarf."

"Come on. It's not even cold out." John spread his arms wide, his own unzipped coat falling open, and Sherlock shook his head and turned up his collar against the snow. John laughed and swiped one hand over the dusting that coated his car, batting it toward Sherlock. They were so at ease with each other once more that Sherlock could almost imagine that the last week and a half had never happened, that they had never been apart. 

Almost as soon as they were on the highway, Sherlock found himself starting to doze in the passenger seat. After the third time he startled himself awake, right leg knocking hard into the cup holder on the door, John laughed. "It's okay if you want to go to sleep. It's what, midnight in London right now?"

"One a.m.," Sherlock said, and tried to straighten up from the slouch he had slid into. He wanted to stay awake—he felt like he owed that much to John—but the car was warm and his stomach was full and he'd barely slept last night. He let his eyes close again and the next thing he knew John had pulled the car to a stop. They couldn't have made it all the way to Barts already, could they have? He glanced at the clock. No, they still had at least a couple of hours left, more if it continued to snow as hard as it was at the moment. He rubbed at his eyes and glanced over questioningly at John. "Did we stop to pee?"

"No. Notice how you can't actually tell by looking out the window if we're at a rest stop or not? The roads aren't really that bad but the snow's blowing so hard I don't want to keep driving in it. My shoulder's starting to ache from hunching over the wheel trying to see out." 

"So where are we?" Sherlock put his face close to the window and tried again to peer through the snow; he saw the faint glow of a sign overhead but couldn't see what it said.

"Near Syracuse. Hampton Inn. There's a Super 8 next door but I figured you'd want the nicer hotel. You're paying the difference."

"I'll pay for all of it," Sherlock said. The idea of sleeping in a bed rather than in the car would've appealed even without the prospect of having John next to him.

As they got their bags and crossed the parking lot, the cold air and whipping snow woke Sherlock up all the way. He paused between the two sets of doors leading into the hotel to shake some of the snow out of his hair, then crossed the lobby to join John at the check-in desk.

The woman behind the counter glanced at Sherlock as he approached, then said to John, "You want two double beds or a king? Same price either way."

"King, please," John answered without hesitation. 

Sherlock's stomach clenched in a moment of panic before he remembered that it was fine—they were allowed to be together in public here. He stepped closer to John, letting their hips touch, and after he gave the clerk his credit card to reserve the room he put his hand on John's arm where it rested on top of the counter. The woman checking them in didn't even bat an eye, but to Sherlock the small display of affection seemed revolutionary.

When they got to their room—a standard hotel room, nothing particularly remarkable—John was immediately entranced with the size of the bed. He tossed his wet coat onto a chair and then dropped down to sit on the edge of the mattress, giving a little bounce before flopping onto his back. "I have literally never slept in a bed this big."

"I have but it was with my brother," Sherlock said, and shuddered. 

John sat up and squinted at Sherlock. "So. Mr. Never-Dated-Anyone-Before. Do you know what happens after you have a fight?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Make up sex," John said. "And I get to pick what we do."

Sherlock laughed. "All right. What do you want to do?"

"Hmm." John leaned back on his elbows, looking Sherlock up and down. "Take off all your clothes."

"Even the coat?"

"Even the coat. Strip. Now."

"Oh, are you going to boss me around?" Sherlock asked, even as he dropped the coat onto the chair next to John's and kicked off his shoes, sending small chunks of snow skittering across the carpet.

John smirked and started to pull off his own clothes. "If you want me to."

Sherlock was fairly certain he wanted nothing of the sort but for some reason the idea was still intriguing. "I think you boss me around enough on the court, don't you? Captain."

"And I think you like it. Shirt and pants off. I want you naked."

Sherlock complied as quickly as he could. "It's cold."

"I'll warm you up. Get over here." John scrambled across the bed, pushing down the covers as he moved before settling on his back in the center of the admittedly luxuriously large mattress.

Sherlock followed him, sliding across the sheets so he could kneel over John. "Okay, but I'm not going to do what you say."

"Yes, you are."

"Make me," he said, and draped himself across John's body, covering nearly every inch of him. John groaned and gave a half-hearted push against Sherlock. His feet were warmer than Sherlock's, his hands colder, his cock just as ready. Sherlock squirmed on top of him, and John responded by licking his ear and bucking beneath him. Sherlock couldn't tell if he was really trying to escape or not. "Stop struggling. You can't win. I'm twice your size."

"You are not," John said; Sherlock could feel his laughter reverberating through his chest. "You've got 20 pounds on me if you're lucky."

"At least two stone. I've put on weight since the school year started."

"I have no idea what that means," John said. "But I'll give you two stones." He wormed his hand in between them to cup Sherlock's balls, stroking lightly.

Sherlock moaned and lifted himself up slightly, so John could move his hand more freely between his legs. He planted his knees on either side of John's waist and ran his own hands over John's chest, tracing the muscles made thick and firm from years of playing ball. He lowered his head to mouth at John's nipples, but before he could get more than a single lick in, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest and rolled them both to the side, ending up on top, with Sherlock pinned beneath him. "I love this bed so much," John said. "So much room."

Sherlock retaliated by running his hands along the sides of John's ribs, seductively at first, but then he turned his touch into a tickle when he reached John's underarms. It was easy to flip John onto his back once he'd started giggling. And John was right—a bed this size was much more fun than the single mattresses in their dorms, where any sort of wrestling for position tended to end with one of them being shoved against the cinderblock wall.

The next time John tried to swap positions Sherlock let him; they ended up nearly diagonal across the mattress. John propped himself on one arm and wrapped his left hand around both their cocks and began to stroke, his rough touch somewhat eased by the slickness starting to leak from them both. Sherlock turned his head so he could mouth at John's arm, relishing how every place where their bodies touched added to the tension building in his groin. 

John moved his arm, dropping more of his weight onto Sherlock so they could bring their mouths together. Sherlock raked his hands through John's hair, then ran his hands down over his shoulders and back, not breaking the kiss even though he could barely get a breath of air into his lungs. John's muscles shifted and flexed beneath his hands as Sherlock trailed them down until he was cupping his arse, one hand covering each cheek. John gasped and bucked harder against him as Sherlock's fingers slipped slightly between his cheeks. He lifted his mouth from their kiss, crying out Sherlock's name.

Once more, Sherlock wasn't sure how to interpret John's tone, but now he was willing to experiment in order to find out. He did it again, sliding his index finger down past John's tailbone, past a few stiff hairs to stroke firmly over the puckered skin he felt. 

"Oh, God!" John arched his back and stilled his hand for a moment; Sherlock paused as well, until John started to move again at a furious, terminal pace. 

It was all Sherlock could do to hold on, the fingers of his right hand pressed firmly between John's cheeks while his left hand gripped the back of his thigh. He thrust into John's hand, grunting with each short stroke, until John's whole body went rigid atop him. Sherlock held still while John shuddered and spurted and moaned, knowing his own climax was not far off. 

A few long breaths and then John changed his grip, swiping his fingers through the sticky warmth on Sherlock's stomach and drawing it back down. Sherlock trembled at the sensation, at John's fingers wet on his cock, at his own hand still cradling John's arse, at the expanse of smooth cotton sheets that they lay on, sweaty beneath him but still cool to either side of his body. "John." He raised his hips, pleading. John tightened his fingers at his name and Sherlock dropped both his hands to the bed, clutching at the sheets as he came in John's hand. 

John flopped onto his back next to Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling. "Okay, wow." He lifted his hips and then settled them again, squirming against the mattress. "That was. What you did with your fingers to my ass? Sure never did that with Mary."

"You liked it?"

"Oh yeah. I—" John glanced down at Sherlock's stomach. "Hang on. You're a mess. Let me—" He vaulted out of bed towards the bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp hand towel.

"Fancy," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, well it seemed a little too much for a couple of tissues to handle." John wiped him off and then tossed the wet towel onto the floor. He climbed into the bed next to Sherlock, reaching down to pull the covers up over both of them. 

"So is that it? We've made up now?"

John laughed and turned onto his side to face him. "Yes, we've officially made up." He put his hand on Sherlock's chest, flicking at his chin with one finger. "You just have to promise that the next time you get all panicked and overwhelmed you tell me what's going on instead of doing something stupid like dumping me."

"I did not—" Sherlock began, then sighed. "Yes, okay. I'll try not to do that again." He covered John's hand with his own. "So was that best make-up sex you've ever had?"

"Um, pretty sure it's the only make-up sex I've ever had."

"What? What about with Mary?"

"We only broke up the one time, and it was, you know. Permanent."

Sherlock pulled his head back a little so he could see John's face. "Didn't you ever have a fight and then make up?"

"I don't think so. We never really fought that much about anything serious."

"So then why did you break up?" 

John shrugged, his shoulder moving against the pillow they shared. "Guess we just didn't love each other." He slid his hand out from beneath Sherlock's and drew the blanket up higher, tucking it beneath his chin. "You can keep talking if you want, but I'm going to sleep. You wore me out. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night," Sherlock replied. He needed to get up and use the loo and throw the deadbolt on the door and turn off the light, but for now he just rolled onto his side, content to watch John as they both drifted off into sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

Sunday was perfect. Sherlock and John slept late, got each other off again, ate breakfast in the hotel's restaurant and then headed back to school. The skies were cloudy but it was no longer actually snowing—John claimed that was the best weather for driving since there was no sun to glare off the snowbanks that lined the highway. They got back to campus before either of John's roommates and spent the rest of the day and night in his room. After the extravagance of the king-sized bed in the hotel, the twin mattress was cramped but Sherlock had no intention of leaving to spend the night by himself. 

He woke up to find himself alone in the bed, though the sound of the shower running told him where John was. They'd showered together in the hotel yesterday morning, but he knew that wasn't an option now. Not only were John's roommates probably back, he could tell even before looking at his phone that he had slept late. He rolled out of bed and rummaged around in John's closet until he found the clean clothes he'd stashed there last semester. He could shower in his own dorm this afternoon once practice was over. 

John's shower had stopped by the time Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, but he was still in the bathroom, so Sherlock headed into the kitchen to find something to eat. There were several half-full boxes of cereal, but no milk. Now that John had a car, maybe he would keep the fridge better stocked than it had been last semester. He found a packet of instant oatmeal and dumped it into a bowl with some water, then stuck it in the microwave to cook. While he was waiting, he tried to tamp down his hair a bit using the reflection in the microwave door, which was why he didn't notice anyone else come into the kitchen until Tay was standing right next to him.

"Holmes," he said, and Sherlock blinked at him. No one on the team had called him that in months. Tay crossed his arms and stood looking at him—looming over him, really, given the half-foot in height he had on Sherlock. "What the hell did you do?" 

"Sorry, what?" He knew Tay was probably not referring to the oatmeal he's nicked from the cupboard.

"This." Tay pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped it on, then scrolled a bit before turning it so Sherlock could see. "I got 57 messages from John the week before Christmas, moaning about how you dumped him and he didn't know why or how his life would ever be the same."

"57? Really?" Sherlock peered at the screen but Tay turned it away before he could read any of it. 

"I don't know. I didn't count them." Tay dropped his phone into his pocket again. "Plus there was a group text."

"Group text."

"Yeah, what'd you expect?" When Sherlock didn't reply, Tay continued. "John says you two are okay again, that you just panicked because this is your first relationship. But I had to listen to him moan for months after he and Mary broke up, and let me tell you—" 

He broke off as the bathroom door slammed open and John marched out, hair wet, wearing nothing but his practice shorts and a hand towel with a smear of shaving cream on it draped over his shoulder. "What the hell, Tay?" 

Tay took a step back from Sherlock and turned to face John. "We're just having a little chat."

"Dude. I said everything was fine and even if it wasn't, I wouldn't need you to defend me," John said. Sherlock forced himself to focus on his scowl instead of on his bare chest.

Tay raised his hands. "I was just making sure it wouldn't happen again."

"It's none of your business."

"Screw you, I was trying to help."

"I said I don't need your help." John crossed his arms and stared up at Tay.

"You spent the whole break texting me and the other guys about what an asshole he was." Tay waved at Sherlock, who had to bite back his natural urge to defend himself. "I'm just trying to make sure he treats you right from now on, all right?"

"Oh my God. You are not my big brother. You're fucking younger than me and I do not need you to protect me from him." Now John motioned at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a step backward, then thought better of it. The problem was that shirtless, angry John made him want to simultaneously tackle him to the ground and drop to his knees and apologize again. Either way, John was right; this was none of Tay's business. "Hey, I'm standing right here, you know," he said. "I told John I'm sorry. So just back off and leave us alone."

Tay shook his head, clearly exasperated. "No wonder you took him back," he said to John. "You two deserve each other." He grabbed a PowerBar from the counter and strode off down the hall to his room.

John watched Tay go, frowning, then gave Sherlock a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that." He pulled the towel off his shoulder and scrubbed at his chin with it. "I didn't think...I was just upset. Probably shouldn't have told him anything."

Sherlock shrugged. If he and John hadn't gotten back together, the rest of the team would've found out about it eventually. Granted, the number of texts John had apparently sent might've been a bit excessive, but a small part of Sherlock was pleased to know that he was that important to him. 

John returned to the bathroom to finish shaving, leaving Sherlock to eat his breakfast alone. He debated going back to his dorm so he could avoid any more awkwardness with John's roommates, but Anderson was probably back by now, and that interaction held even less appeal. Instead he flopped down on the living room sofa and played around on his phone until John and Tay and Campbell were all ready to leave for practice. 

As they walked across the nearly-deserted campus to the athletic center, no one mentioned dating or breaking up or anything besides what video games they had played during the holiday. When they got to the gymnasium, most of the team was already there, not practicing yet but sprawled across the bleachers, much as they had been the first time Sherlock had met them. Another lecture by Lestrade. _Lovely._ John dropped down to sit on the floor in front of the bleachers and Sherlock took a seat on the bench behind him.

He'd barely sat down before Anderson came clambering down the bleachers to sit next to him. Sherlock frowned as Anderson looked him up and down, then glanced over at John. "You're a lucky bastard, Sherlock, you know that, right?" he said under his breath.

So Anderson had been in on John's texts. _Perfect._ Sherlock shook his head and edged away from him, inadvertently nudging John with his foot as he moved. John turned to look at him, giving a relaxed smile which Sherlock tried to return. At least the coaches were still in the small office adjacent to the locker rooms and wouldn't see the two of them grinning at each other. 

"Is everyone here?" Lestrade stuck his head out of the office, lips moving as he counted the players sitting waiting for him. Sherlock already knew that everyone was here, with one welcome exception.

"Brez isn't back yet," Greene said. "I thought he was supposed to get here yesterday, but he didn't and I haven't heard anything from him."

"Everyone else is here, though, right?" Lestrade walked across the court, stopping about ten feet in front of the bleachers. He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat before beginning. "So. It's a new semester, and we're entering the second half of the season, when every game starts to really matter."

Sherlock tried to keep his sigh relatively inaudible. He'd heard this speech before, maybe not from Lestrade, but all coaches tended to use the same basic rallying cries. _Boring._ He leaned back against the bleacher behind him, letting his foot touch John's hip again. Given that if he tilted his head back a few inches he could have rested it against Tay's shins, he didn't think Lestrade or Dimmock, who was sitting at the far end of the section of bleachers, would notice anything unusual.

Lestrade went on. "We had a pretty good front half of the season—our record is better than I expected, to be honest—but we are going to need to make some changes if we want to keep winning for the rest of the year. Well, one big change at least." He paused and took a deep breath, gaze sweeping over everyone again. "We're going to have to re-work our starting lineup because Brez will not be returning to the team."

Sherlock's head shot up before he even had a chance to consider hiding his shock. In front of him, John sat up straight, pulling his legs in to wrap his arms around his knees. All around them, the other players started speaking at once, until Lestrade cut them all off, stepping closer and raising his hands. "Hey, hey, now, let me finish."

Almost everyone quieted down, but Greene spoke up. "That's a little harsh, for what he did." As he said it he looked quickly at Sherlock and then away. 

Greene was right—no one had really expected Brez to be suspended for more than a handful of games. Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the floor, not willing to see who else might be staring at him, and hoping no one could see the immense relief he felt at the news of the loss of a teammate.

"No, no," Lestrade said. "It wasn't like that. He wasn't kicked off the team. He made the decision to quit on his own. He most likely would've faced a two or three game suspension, but...maybe this is for the best." When Sherlock glanced up he found Lestrade staring at him; they both quickly looked away and Lestrade continued. "But it's obviously going to have an effect on our lineup. Since he was our only true center, we're going to need our big men especially to step up. Noah, Tay, Jenkins— we'll need you all more than ever on the boards. Campbell and Greene, we're probably going to need you to swing out to forward more often than you have in the past."

Sherlock let Lestrade's words fade into the background once more as he rattled on about the bigger players and how they would need to adjust their games. He knew his own role wouldn't really be affected; he was too small to play forward and they needed his scoring ability on the outside. He wasn't as sure about his role off the court. How many of the guys would resent the fact that Brez had quit because of him? He tried to move away from John without being obvious about it. Behind him, Tay kneed him in the shoulder; when he turned to see what he wanted, Tay mouthed words that looked an awful lot like "good riddance." Considering that less than an hour ago he'd basically been threatening Sherlock for breaking up with John, maybe this would work out all right after all.

Eventually Lestrade wound his speech down, touching on the reason Brez had left without actually saying it. "We're going to have a lot of work to do, but hopefully we're all going to be able to work together now better than we were before. I'm not going to stand for intolerance or fighting among teammates, understand me? We're going to put aside any differences we have and be a team." He paused and then clapped his hands once, changing his tone to one much less serious. "All right. Since I'm sure most of you spent the last week eating and sleeping and avoiding any movement, take a little extra time warming up today. John, go ahead and show 'em what to do."

Sherlock watched John stand up and shake his limbs out in preparation to leading everyone through their warm-up stretches. He himself didn't move yet; it would probably be best if he allowed a little bit of separation between himself and John at practice today.

"Sherlock, can I speak to you for a moment?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow and tilted his head toward the office by the locker rooms.

 _Of course._ Sherlock grimaced and stood up from the bleacher, before jogging across the gym after Lestrade. It was obvious what he wanted to speak about, honestly. While he appreciated Lestrade's attempt to be circumspect, everyone on the team knew why Brez hadn't come back.

Lestrade shut the door behind them and motioned to one of the chairs in the tiny room. Sherlock considered insisting on standing but judged that the conversation would be over faster if he just agreed with everything Lestrade said to him. He sat, the metal of the folding chair creaking beneath his weight.

Lestrade sat on the corner of the desk, which put him closer than Sherlock would've preferred. "So. I guess you've got some idea why I called you in here."

Sherlock nodded, and Lestrade nodded right back at him. "Okay. Well. I wanted you to know that you shouldn't blame yourself for Brez leaving the team."

"I don't." Sherlock shifted in the chair, leaning back and crossing his arms in an attempt to appear unaffected.

"Good. Good." Lestrade scrubbed a hand along the back of his head, but for some reason felt the need to keep talking. "Because I don't think Brez's decision was due just to his...disagreements with you. I'm sure he had other stuff going on. It had to be hard on him, being so far away from home. Well, you must know what that's like, right?"

Sherlock blinked his eyes closed and sighed. "Is this all you called me in here for? Because I'd like to get back to practice."

"Um, yeah," Lestrade said. "I just didn't want you to feel responsible—"

"I don't." Sherlock pushed the chair back and stood to leave, but before he could take a step, there was a sharp knock and then the door opened.

"Hey, sorry, I—" John poked his head in. "Um, Campbell's leading warm-ups. Could I?" he asked, and then stepped all the way into the office, closing the door behind him. 

"Oh, John." Lestrade slipped off the corner of the desk and took a step backward, glancing at Sherlock and then at John again. "We were just—"

"Yeah, I know what you were talking about. But it's not just Sherlock you should be talking to."

Lestrade shot another a quick glance at Sherlock before saying to John, "Er, it wasn't really a matter for the whole team to discuss."

John shook his head. "No. Just me. If you're talking about why Brez quit, you need to know that I'm as much to blame as Sherlock."

"Sherlock's not to blame—wait, what?" Lestrade leaned against his desk again, head tilted in puzzlement.

John stuck his chin out and clasped his hands behind his back. "Brez didn't have a problem with Sherlock until he found out that Sherlock and I were together." 

"You...." Lestrade began and then trailed off, looking back and forth between him and John. 

Sherlock could practically see Lestrade's thought process as he moved from confusion to a limited understanding—it was physically painful to watch. Instead he turned to John and glared, trying to convey to him without actually saying anything how completely unnecessary it had been for him to come in here and out himself like that. 

John pursed his lips at Sherlock and then addressed Lestrade, who still hadn't managed more than a bewildered syllable or two. "We tried to keep it private, but the rest of the team found out. Everyone else has been cool with it, but Brez was not." 

Lestrade blinked at him and then cocked his head. "Are you telling me that my point and my two guards are dating each other and everyone else on the team knows about it?"

John nodded as Sherlock began, "I wouldn't call it dating—"

John turned and glared up at him. "You dumped me over Christmas, of course we're dating."

"You dumped him? So you aren't dating anymore?"

"No, we're back together now," Sherlock clarified. "We just don't really go out on dates...." He trailed off when he caught a glimpse of John's face, which clearly said _let me handle this_. 

Lestrade rubbed at his chin as if he were trying to work through a difficult problem. "I...okay. Sorry. I didn't mean to— You just caught me by surprise. I mean, Sherlock, I figured ever since you decked Brez that time at Thanksgiving, maybe— But John. Wow." He shook his head. "Not that there's anything wrong with...." He waved his hand between John and Sherlock. "It just never occurred to me. And you were dating that little cheerleader for a while, weren't you?"

"Yeah, so?" John shrugged and took a step toward Sherlock. Sherlock resisted the instinct to move away from him, though if John tried to hold his hand or make some similar sentimental gesture in front of Lestrade, he would have to draw the line.

Lestrade hesitated only a moment longer before saying, "Well, your personal lives have got nothing to do with me. You've obviously been working well together on the court, and I haven't noticed any problems between either of you and any of the other guys besides Brez, so I guess it's not a team issue. I mean, you both know the official team policy on premarital relations, so, as long as I don't hear any details about uh, anything, I guess we're good." 

The thought of Lestrade even obliquely referring to their sex life was enough to make Sherlock want to abstain. Hoping the conversation was over, he took a step backward, toward the door, and from the corner of his eye saw John do the same. Lestrade seemed to have decided that he'd heard enough as well, waving them out of the office. Sherlock tried to not seem like he was fleeing after John. 

They finished warming up with the rest of the team, and then Lestrade divided everyone up to start scrimmaging, putting Sherlock and John together with Tay, Jenkins and Noah as a possible new starting five against Campbell, Greene, Anderson and two of the walk-on players. Sherlock's sense of relief intensified; after the last tournament, there'd been no guarantee that he would continue to have a position as a starter. 

Today at least he seemed to be shooting well, but as practice went on, it quickly became apparent that Sherlock's performance was not the team's immediate concern. 

"Get in there and grab the ball, Noah! You're not here to be polite!" Lestrade shouted as Noah missed an offensive rebound and Greene got the ball instead.

"Sorry!" Noah called as he chased after Greene. 

"Don't be sorry, be better!" Lestrade yelled, and Sherlock had time to marvel at the utter uselessness of most of what passed for coaching advice, even at this level.

He raced back down the court, getting into defensive position as Campbell caught the pass from Greene and tried a shot from inside the three-point line. Sherlock didn't get a hand on the ball but he was close enough to throw Campbell off balance—his shot didn't have enough arc, Sherlock could tell immediately. He spun toward the basket and saw the ball rattle off the backboard. Just as he had been at the other end of the court, Noah was in position for the rebound, but couldn't get the ball under control. Tay and Jenkins both darted in to help, but only ended up getting in each other's way.

Sherlock shook his head as he watched the ball go out of bounds. He wasn't too surprised that Noah was playing poorly. He was a freshman who, unlike Sherlock, had not seen much game time so far this season. It would take him a little while to adjust to having a bigger role. But Tay and Jenkins were making amateur mistakes as well, seemingly as flummoxed as Noah by the change in the lineup. Sherlock felt a brief pang of guilt—was losing Brez really going to hurt the team? He refused to believe it. _Maybe everyone's just out of practice after the holiday._ They would be playing at their best again by next week's game. 

After a couple more less-than-stellar trips up and down the court, Lestrade blew his whistle, halting play. "All right. Everyone take a break. We're going to do some drills on the boards next. I don't know what's got into you all but I think John's got more rebounds in the last half-hour than all of the frontcourt combined."

"Nothing wrong with a point guard who can rebound." John tucked the ball they'd been using under his arm and swaggered over to the water station next to the bleachers.

The rest of the team followed after him. While everyone else jostled for access to the water, Noah sat on the floor with a towel over his head, moaning about how they were going to lose their next game because of him. "Appledore's going to kill us. I can't match up with Moran." 

"Yes, you can, dude," Tay said. "That guy's all bark."

Sherlock sat down on the bleacher next to Tay and popped the cap on the water bottle he'd brought with him. "Isn't Moran the one who broke John's shoulder?" 

John swatted Sherlock in the arm and then dropped down to sit next to him on the bench. "Shut up. I just fell wrong. And Noah's a lot bigger than I am, anyway."

"But I'm not as big as Brez," Noah said.

"Size doesn't matter. Right, Johnny?" Tay reached across Sherlock's chest to rub John's head. Sherlock leaned back out of the way to avoid the punch that John aimed at Tay's arm in response.

The levity seemed to have no effect on Noah. "He was our best rebounder."

"Yeah, but Tay's not far behind," John said. "And your numbers will improve once you start playing more. You've got the height. All you need to do is start using it."

Sherlock took a gulp of his water bottle and mentally reviewed the season's stats thus far. "Noah actually averages more rebounds per minute played that Brez did," he said.

"I do?" Noah perked up and Sherlock refrained from adding that Brez had been far better at converting his rebounds into actual points. 

Anderson crumpled up the paper cup he'd been using and tossed it into the trash bin. "The only reason Brez led the team in anything was because he was big and got playing time," he said. "We don't need him." 

"Yeah, we're definitely better off without him," John said, and from the grunts of agreement it seemed most everyone else felt the same. 

"Anyway, Lestrade likes to play a small team." Tay stood up from the bleachers and waved his hand at John, Sherlock and Anderson. "He'd probably play all guards if he could."

"Yeah." Noah laughed and unfolded himself from his spot on the floor. "That's cause Lestrade's like 5'10" in heels."

Everyone laughed at the image that conjured. Anderson slid down the bench and nudged Sherlock's knee with his own. "I bet you'd like to see Lestrade in heels, wouldn't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at him. "Why on earth would I want to see that?"

"Yeah." Tay kicked Anderson in the foot. "He likes men, not women's shoes. Put Lestrade in combat boots, then maybe...."

Sherlock shrunk back against the wooden bleacher behind him, looking up at Tay in horror. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"Oh, come on. Lestrade is attractive."

Sherlock shuddered. "He's like 50 years old," he said, just as the door to the office opened and Lestrade emerged. 

"Combat boots," Tay whispered and everyone dissolved into laughter. Sherlock pushed himself up off the bleacher, shaking his head as he walked away.

"What's so funny?" Lestrade looked to Sherlock, since the rest of the team was too incoherent with laughter to answer. Even John was giggling. 

"Nothing," Sherlock said. He couldn't quite meet Lestrade's eye at the moment, and he didn't want to acknowledge any of his teammates until they all shut up, so he jogged over to get a ball from the rack instead. 

Lestrade frowned and then shrugged. "Okay, everybody. Let's get back out there. We'll try a three-guard line-up. John, Sherlock, Anderson, you three with Tay and Jenkins."

Everyone scrambled back onto the court, setting up to play as Lestrade instructed. Sherlock didn't know what lineup they would ultimately end up with, or if they would still be able to win as many games, but at the moment he really didn't care. He'd been worried about Lestrade finding out about him and John ever since their first kiss, and now that it had happened with no apparent repercussions, he felt more relaxed than he had been in months. Add into that the fact that the one player on the team who'd been truly homophobic was gone, and Sherlock was certain that his life couldn't get too much better. If the price of happiness was only a bit of good-natured teasing plus the risk of losing a few games, that was a cost he was more than willing to pay.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter has a bunch of car stuff, like hoods and bonnets and car parks and parking lots and enough other terms that make me want to pull my hair out because having the British term seems weird to me in this AU but having still-British Sherlock use the American term in his POV seems equally wrong. Anyway. Basically I've generally used the American just because.

Sherlock's birthday was January 6, which happened to be the day of their first game of the new year, against Appledore College. Since it was an evening game and classes still wouldn't start for another week and a half, there was plenty of time to celebrate beforehand. After lunch the whole team gathered in John's suite for cake and then Sherlock and John returned alone to Sherlock's room. With the rest of the dorm nearly empty of students, they could be as loud and rambunctious as they wanted.

"Happy Birthday," John said, when they were finished and he'd recovered enough breath to speak. 

"Mm. Thanks." Sherlock stretched out along the length of the bed, satiated but still enjoying the feel of John's naked body against his. They had a couple of hours before they needed to be suited up for the game, and Anderson had agreed to stay out of the room until then. 

"Don't fall asleep." John reached over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt Sherlock had been wearing earlier and then used it to wipe off his hands and stomach.

"Hey, that's my shirt."

"Yeah, but you should go put on something nicer anyway." John rolled out of bed and started digging through the pile of clothes on the floor. "I'm taking you out to dinner."

Sherlock raised himself up on his elbows to watch John. "Dinner? Like a date? Seriously?" 

"Yes, seriously. I'm picking you up in my car and everything. We're probably going to be eating with all the senior citizen early birds, but we should be able to get there and back in time for the game."

Sherlock considered. It probably wouldn't be as much fun as what they'd just been doing, but he was hungry again. "Where are we going?"

"There's this sports grill in town that I figured would be appropriate."

Sherlock chuckled and slid out of bed, stepping around John so he could reach his closet. "All right. So what should I wear for an early-bird birthday dinner at a sports grill?" He reached for one of the suits that he normally wore on game days when classes were in session.

"Not that. Too fancy."

Sherlock sighed. "Suit's too fancy, t-shirt's not fancy enough. What else am I supposed to wear?"

"That dark blue dress shirt I like."

"This one?" He pulled the shirt in question from its hanger.

"Yep. With jeans."

"Hmm." Sherlock ran his hand over his suits again and then crossed the room to retrieve a pair of jeans from his chest of drawers. "All right. Are you sure you're not just afraid of looking too plain next to me?"

"I'm afraid of looking like we're a couple on a date instead of just two students eating dinner, you dickhead." John stood up, naked except for his pants, and walked by him, flicking his fingers at the tangled hair on the back of Sherlock's head as he passed.

"Hey." Sherlock swung his arm back to grab him, but John danced out of the way as he crossed the narrow room to open Sherlock's closet once more.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for some fancier clothes."

Sherlock laughed. "Nothing in there would fit you."

"This will." He pulled Sherlock's old winter parka out from the back of the closet.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That's not fancy. You want it?"

"Sure." He twirled the coat around to slide it onto his shoulders and Sherlock felt a funny little twist of pride at the sight.

"All right," he said, trying to keep his voice light so John wouldn't realize how much seeing him wearing the parka affected him. "But all the guys on the team will know you're wearing my coat."

"Yeah, well, they know I'm taking you out to dinner right now, so what's the difference?" He swung the closet door shut and grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled back. "True. But you should probably put some clothes on, too."

By the time they made it outside to John's car the sun was starting to set, which made Sherlock feel a little less ridiculous going out to dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. At least the restaurant probably wouldn't be too crowded. Even if he and John didn't act as if they were on a date, it would still be best if as few people as possible saw them alone together. The town was small enough and the basketball team had enough local fans that it was entirely plausible someone would recognize them, even in their street clothes.

The automatic locks on John's car didn't work, so Sherlock stood outside it, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm while John got in on the driver's side and then reached over to unlock the door for him. He stooped to climb in, only to be stopped by John thrusting a package wrapped in bright red wrapping paper at him. "Here, I didn't want you to sit on it."

Sherlock took the package and slipped into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut. "I thought dinner out was my present."

John shrugged. "I got you something else, too. Just something small. Sorry about the paper—it was on clearance after Christmas."

Sherlock pulled on his seatbelt, cradling the gift in his lap. It was a long, thin box that didn't weigh very much. "Should I open it now or later?"

"Now, so you can use it." 

Sherlock frowned at him, then tore open the paper. He recognized the name of a local clothing store on the box inside—John must've driven out to it at some point in the past week without Sherlock noticing, even though they'd been spending most of their time together. What kind of clothing would John buy him? The box was too small for a shirt but bigger than one that would hold a tie—and surely John wouldn't do that to him, anyway, unless it was a joke. 

He opened the box, revealing a length of dark blue fabric with thin tassels on the end; when he lifted it from the box, the fabric proved soft beneath his fingers. "A scarf." 

"Yeah, you said you wanted one that night we drove back in the storm, and I thought that color would look good with your coat. And, um, your skin and your eyes and stuff."

Sherlock pushed the button on the ceiling to turn on the car's interior light, then flipped the visor down so he could look in the mirror as he held the scarf up beneath his chin. It did look good. "We really are dating, aren't we?"

"Yes. Well, at the moment at least. Not once we get into the restaurant."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "Thank you. For the scarf. And for dinner and the cake and the sex earlier."

John turned off the interior light and started the car. "Did you just thank me for having sex with you?"

"Well, I figured that was part of the birthday present."

"No, we would've done that anyway."

Sherlock laughed in agreement and wrapped the scarf around his neck, pleased with the way it felt on his skin.

The restaurant was only a ten-minute drive away. As they climbed out of the car, Sherlock studied the exterior of the building, noting that it had been recently renovated and re-branded as a sports grill. The actual restaurant had been here for years, owned and operated by the same family, though the recent changes had brought an uptick in business, as evidenced by the mostly full parking lot even at this early hour. There were doubtless more romantic places to eat elsewhere in town, but John was right in thinking this was a good choice for the two of them.

He followed John inside, grateful for the gray-haired woman whose young granddaughter insisted on holding the door for them, so John wasn't tempted to carry his conceit of taking him on a date too far. They sat in a booth near the back of the restaurant—a fairly private location, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy at first. Eating out together in a restaurant wasn't too unusual, since whenever the team had an away game, they had at least one meal on the road, but today definitely felt different. He didn't think it was because it was his birthday or even because they'd been having sex less than a half-hour ago. The simple act of John declaring that he was taking Sherlock out to dinner seemed to have changed the entire atmosphere. He found himself watching the other diners, trying to deduce from the way they interacted if they were all couples as well. The old man and woman by the door were clearly married, but the two middle-aged women who were laughing so much—just good friends? They certainly were behaving more intimately than he and John ever did in public.

He picked up his menu without really seeing it, instead looking over the top of it at John. "Did you ever bring Mary here on a date?" 

"No, I've never been here before. Neither of us had a car." John said, then looked up sharply from his own menu. "Why are you worried about me and Mary? There's no comparison." 

He wasn't worried about Mary, not really. But it was still reassuring to know that John had chosen this place especially for him and him alone. _God, what is wrong with me?_ He was never this sentimental. He stared at John for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the menu. "You're right. I'm much taller than Mary and have better hair." 

John barked a laugh and kicked Sherlock's foot under the table. Sherlock kicked him back, then had to remind himself not to let it go any farther or soon they'd have their legs wrapped around each other and their attempt to appear platonic would be over.

Eventually Sherlock was able to push aside most of his self-consciousness and enjoy the meal. It helped that none of the other diners were paying any attention to them; the only person who even acknowledged their existence was their waitress, who didn't seem to notice anything unusual about two college students eating alone together.

He ordered a chicken sandwich and fries, not the cheapest items available, but close to it, since he knew John couldn't afford to splurge. John chose a double cheeseburger, insisting he needed the extra protein before the game. When it arrived at the table, it proved to be nearly three times the size of Sherlock's sandwich. As he picked it up to take his first bite, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Sure you can fit that in your mouth?"

John grinned at him and then proceeded to take a giant bite, leaving strings of cheese and a bit of lettuce hanging from between his teeth. 

Sherlock choked back laughter. "Mm. Nice." He took a dainty bite of his own sandwich, licking his lower lip dramatically after he swallowed.

They spent the rest of the meal trying not to giggle too much, teasing each other and enjoying the food. When they were done, John paid for the meal and they headed back outside—it was fully dark now, but they still had almost an hour before they needed to be at the game, plenty of time to get back to campus and change. Sherlock settled into the passenger seat and said, "If we hurry we might have time to kick Anderson out of the room again."

"Good idea." John turned the key in the ignition. It took a few tries before the engine started; John grimaced when it finally did. "I don't think my car likes the cold." 

Sherlock shook his head. "You'd think it would be used to it by now."

They had to drive through the middle of town to get back to the college; there was enough traffic that Sherlock imagined it must be the small-town version of rush hour. John had to stop for a red light and then sit through the light cycle until he got a green arrow allowing him to turn left. He made it about halfway through the intersection before the car's engine suddenly went quiet and the radio and lights turned off. 

John let out a string of curses but didn't lose control of the car. He drifted through the intersection and then into the parking lot of a supermarket. 

"What happened?" 

"I don't know, it just died." John put the car into park, then turned the key in the ignition, trying to restart it. Nothing happened. 

"Is it the battery?" 

"Maybe. Shouldn't have just died like that when it was already running, though."

After trying unsuccessfully to start it a few more times, John got out of the car to take a look at the engine. Sherlock followed him, wrapping his new scarf tightly around his neck. There was enough light from the overhead lights that he could see, but that didn't mean he knew what he was looking at. "What are you doing?" 

"No idea. The battery looks okay. The guy we bought it from said it was pretty new." He poked at the wires that ran from the battery and then leaned in farther.

"Do you actually know how to fix anything or did you just decide looking under the bonnet makes you look like you know what you're doing?"

"Bonnet? Really?" John stepped back and straightened up to look at Sherlock. "It's called a hood." 

"Mm, no it's not," Sherlock said, pleased to see he could still make John smile in spite of the circumstances.

John took another step away from the car, shoving his bare hands into the pockets of the coat he'd taken from Sherlock's closet. "You're smart, shouldn't you know how to fix it?"

"I don't even drive. Where would I have learned about cars?" Sherlock bent to peer at the battery, careful not to touch his coat against anything that could be greasy. "Maybe it just needs to be jumped?" 

"Maybe. I have AAA. They can come jump it or tow it, I guess, if it needs to be towed." He sighed and slid his phone out of his pocket. 

They got back in the car and John tried once more to start it before digging his AAA membership card out of his wallet and calling the number. "Watch it start now," he said, after he'd ended the call, but once again nothing happened when he turned the key. "Shit." He flopped back against the seat. "They said a truck would be here within the hour. If it really takes that long, we'll be late for the game." He turned his head toward Sherlock without lifting it from the headrest. "And of course it figures that we'd be stuck in the busiest parking lot in town, so we can't even spend the time making out."

Sherlock gave him a half-hearted smile. He was right; the lot was full of shoppers and very well-lit. 

They sat in the car for a few minutes, then when it became clear that the tow truck wouldn't be arriving immediately, decided to wait inside the supermarket, where it was warmer. As they stood next to a corral of empty carts in the front of the store, watching out the window for the tow truck, John brushed his shoulder against Sherlock's arm. "Happy birthday," he said. 

Sherlock bumped sideways against him, wishing he could put his arm around him. "I had a good day, apart from the car," he said.

"I know," John replied. "Unfortunately, this is the part where I send you away."

"Hmm?"

John pulled out his phone again and started typing. "There's no sense in us both being late. If Campbell leaves campus now, he can come pick you up and you'll both be back in time for the game."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the plan. "He can pick you up, too, and you can leave the car here overnight." 

"If I'd thought of that earlier, I would have, but now the tow truck's already on the way."

"Okay, but then how are you going to get back to campus? They probably won't fix your car tonight."

John shrugged. "I can call a cab."

"You better call it now or you'll be waiting all night." There was a taxi service in town, but it mainly served to shuttle students to and from the airport and was not known for punctuality otherwise.

"I can't. I don't even know what garage I'm getting towed to."

Sherlock didn't like the idea of leaving John, but he knew it would be worse for the team if they both missed the start of the game. Hopefully John would be able to get to the garage and back to campus before the game itself started, even if he missed warm-ups and Lestrade's pre-game meeting.

The tow truck arrived about fifteen minutes later, before Campbell did. The driver, a heavyset middle-aged man wearing only a hooded sweatshirt instead of actual winter coat, spent some time looking at the engine and muttering nonsense that made Sherlock wonder if he knew any more than John did about car repair. 

After a couple of minutes, John cleared his throat and said, "Hey, I appreciate you looking at it, but we really need to get back to campus so if you could just tow it, that'd be great." He gave the driver a smile that Sherlock knew to be forced. "We've got a game at 7:30 and we're supposed to be there an hour before it starts."

"A game—" The driver straightened up and squinted at John. "Oh, I know you! You're the point guard from Barts who got hurt last year. Watson, right?"

"Yeah." John's smile became even tighter. "And we've got a game at tonight," he repeated.

His words didn't seem to have much of an impact. "My son's a big fan," the driver continued, wiping his hands on a rag he'd had stuck in his back pocket. "I took him to a couple games this season already. Having a much better year than last year, aren't you? The whole team, I mean, not just you," he added, sparing a glance at Sherlock as he turned away from John's car and toward his tow truck.

"Finally," John muttered. The driver got his truck into position in front of John's car, lowered the flatbed, then hooked two cables to John's car to pull it onto the bed. Sherlock stood to the side, watching, face buried to his nose in his new scarf. 

Once the car was secured atop the flatbed, the driver shook his head and waved a hand at it. "Yeah, these old Chevys never last. Depending on what's wrong, you might be better off replacing it." 

"He's only had it two weeks," Sherlock said, and the driver peered up at him.

"Oh, you're the English kid, aren't you? Should've recognized you earlier, with that hair." He shook his head again. "The school should be ashamed of itself, letting its players drive around in this piece of junk. No offense."

Sherlock stared at him. "What do you expect the school to do about it? They can't give us gifts and I'm not allowed to have a car on campus until I'm a junior." He pulled his coat closer around him, frustrated and not in the mood to talk, even if the man was something of a fan. Luckily, he was saved from having to endure any more chit-chat by the arrival of Campbell, who pulled his Saturn up next to the truck. 

The driver watched Campbell climb out of his car. "You all deserve better cars."

Campbell gave him a confused look and addressed Sherlock, who was closest. "What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It stopped running."

"Is it out of gas?"

"Are you serious? No."

"Hey, you never know," Campbell said, and walked around the back of the truck to where John stood. "Where's it getting towed to? Are you wearing Sherlock's old coat?"

"Shut up," John said. "I don't know where to go. Do you have a garage around here you've used?"

"Yeah, there's a place near the mall that replaced part of my brake line last year." He glanced over at the driver for confirmation.

"Tony's," the driver said. "They do good work and they're open till seven so you could drop it off and tell 'em what's happened tonight."

"Crap, it's almost 6:30 already," John said. "Lestrade's going to flip out."

"Tay's gonna tell him where we are," Campbell said. "Relax."

"No, but I still have to go to the garage and talk to the guys there and oh, I forgot I need to call a cab—" He fumbled for his phone in the pocket of his coat.

"Nah, don't do that. I'm already dressed for the game." Campbell pulled down the zipper of his coat to reveal his uniform. "I can run Sherlock back to campus now and then come back for you."

"I can give you a ride back to Barts," the truck driver said. 

John looked at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Sure, I'd be glad to. It's on my way home anyway, and my son will be thrilled to hear I gave you a lift. You won't be there an hour early but you'll make it by 7:30."

John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded, curling his lip. "Make it as fast as you can, otherwise Anderson's going to get the start."

"I'll do my best," John said, and lifted one hand in an awkward wave as he climbed into the cab of the truck. Not the way their date was supposed to end, Sherlock knew, but they couldn't exactly kiss each other goodbye right now. He raised his own hand in acknowledgement and then got into Campbell's car for the ride back to campus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...tow truck? Breakdown lorry? Who knows?
> 
> As always, I apologize for the long wait between chapters. I'm trying, really. While you're waiting for the next one you can check out some of [my other works](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=hits&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&user_id=MissDavis) if you haven't already! Thanks!


	22. Chapter 22

By the time Sherlock got to the athletic center, the rest of the team had already gathered in the back of the locker room to go over their game strategy one final time. He'd changed his clothes in his dorm, so all he had to do was grab his game shoes from his locker and then join them. Lestrade raised a hand in greeting. "Here's the birthday boy now."

Sherlock dropped into one of the folding chairs at the edge of the room. "John's on his way, his car broke down—"

"Yeah, Campbell filled us in. You're just in time. I want to go over one more piece of film before the game and you need to pay attention to how they break the press when the game is close."

Sherlock sighed and settled back in the uncomfortable chair. They'd already watched hours of Appledore footage over the last week; what more could they possibly hope to learn?

They spent nearly a half-hour re-watching bits of Appledore's last few games and discussing their plan for today. A plan which included John in his usual essential role, though he still hadn't arrived by the time Lestrade wrapped up and they headed into the gymnasium to warm up. Campbell ran them through their shooting and passing drills instead, though Sherlock had only half his attention on the exercises, too intent on watching the door, waiting for John to appear. 

As game time drew closer, Lestrade called everyone to the locker room again for some final instructions. "I heard from John—he should be here soon. I tried to get the refs to let us delay the start, but Coach Magnussen won't agree to it, so we're probably going to have to start without him. Anderson, you're on point. You and Sherlock will double-team Moriarty right from the start, like we've been planning. I don't want him to be able to make a move without one of you being in his face."

They returned to the gym just before the starting lineups were announced to the crowd, which was a good deal smaller than normal, since most of the students who usually came to the games were still home on their holiday break. Still, it was definitely a home crowd—Sherlock didn't think he would ever tire of hearing the cheers as his name was called out over the speakers. He and Anderson joined Tay, Jenkins, and of course Noah now that Brez was gone. They jogged out to the center of the court when their names were called, then went back to gather in a loose huddle around the bench.

Anderson swung his arms back and forth, stretching, and glanced over at the Appledore bench. "I haven't started a game since John was out last year," he said. 

_Great._ Not only were they missing John's talent, but Anderson was probably going to screw up because he was making himself nervous. "You'll be fine," Sherlock said, wondering why he had to reassure someone who'd been playing college ball for two years more than he had. "And anyway, John will be here in a few minutes."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Anderson scowled and turned away. 

Sherlock shook his head. It wasn't his job to babysit Anderson's ego. 

Tay seemed more sympathetic. "Come on, man, you'll be fine. You started almost every game last year."

"Yeah, and we lost most of them," Anderson said.

The whistle blew and they headed onto the court. Noah faced off against Appledore's center, Sebastian Moran, for the jump ball. Noah was several inches taller, but Moran was heavier and clearly more experienced. He got control of the ball, directing it toward Appledore's point guard, Moriarty, who, rather than trying for a fast break and a quick two points, immediately slowed his pace, allowing time for his team to set up on the court. 

Sherlock joined Anderson in defending Moriarty. He knew from Appledore's statistics and all the footage they'd had to watch that Moriarty was dangerous as a player, but now that they were on the court together, Sherlock wasn't impressed. He was only a couple inches taller than John, and not nearly as muscular. He could tell Moriarty was sizing him up as well, studying Sherlock's defensive moves as he dribbled the ball back and forth near the half court. He nearly ran the shot clock down to zero before faking a move toward Sherlock, then passing the ball in the opposite direction. The player he passed to took a shot from just inside the arc. He missed, but Moran powered past Noah and Tay to grab the rebound and dunk it in. Moriarty smirked at Sherlock as they ran back to the other end of the court and Sherlock resolved to outplay him.

Barts' first possession went perfectly—Anderson had the technical ability to run all the plays they rehearsed in practice. He passed the ball when and where he should, allowing Tay to score two points. The problem was that Anderson lacked John's judgment and imagination, which meant that after a few trips up and down the court, Appledore knew exactly what he was likely to do. As play went on, Sherlock found himself glancing toward the locker room door, hoping that John would appear at any second.

They were about five minutes into the game when the door finally opened. Sherlock looked up in time to see John waving at Lestrade. He was still in his street clothes, duffle bag in hand, but at least now it would only be another minute or two before he was ready to play. They were down by four points but surely with John on the floor they would be able to catch up quickly. 

Buoyed by the thought, Sherlock scored his second basket of the game before John emerged from the locker room, dressed in his uniform. Appledore had possession of the ball, which meant Lestrade couldn't call a timeout to substitute him in. He had to wait until play stopped, which wasn't until Appledore scored again, keeping Barts down by four points. 

John jogged onto the court and took over running the offense. He was normally more at ease playing point than Anderson, but today he seemed uncharacteristically tense. Sherlock expected him to relax and fall into his normal groove after playing for a few minutes, but it didn't happen. He still called plays much more instinctively and effectively than Anderson did, but his own playing was off. He didn't take many shots, even when he had the opportunity, and missed two chances at the free throw line, which was unheard of for him. 

On defense, John and Sherlock were supposed to be double-teaming Moriarty, but after a single play Moriarty realized that John would give way if he drove toward him. Sherlock tried to compensate but ended up committing a foul when he made contact with Moriarty's arm instead of the ball. It was rare for him to make an unnecessary foul like that, but he couldn't let Moriarty beat their defense so easily, and John wasn't pulling his weight. 

After a few frustrating minutes during which Appledore doubled their lead to eight, Lestrade called a timeout. As they sat on the bench guzzling water, Lestrade squatted in front of John. "I know you're flustered, what with your car breaking down and all, but you need to put it out of your mind for now, all right? You're our leader out there, it's time to lead."

"I know, I'm sorry." John shook his head. "I'll do better." He drummed his heels on the hardwood, a determined look on his face, and Lestrade moved on to talking about how Noah and Tay should handle Moran underneath the basket.

John's determination didn't translate into better play—he had three turnovers before Lestrade finally benched him for the last few minutes of the half. Anderson came back in; he still wasn't much of a point guard, but he ended up scoring twice, which was twice more than John had. 

Sherlock himself was having a decent game, at least when their plays went well enough for him to get the ball. He sank a twenty-footer with less than a minute left on the clock, pulling the team to within 4 points. As he turned and ran back down the court to play defense, he glanced over to the bench where John sat yelling advice and encouragement to the players on the court. He was slightly hunched to one side, as if favoring the shoulder he'd hurt last year. Normally it didn't bother him, but he was usually very careful about stretching and loosening it up before playing and today he hadn't had a chance to warm-up at all. Maybe that explained why he'd been playing so poorly.

They finished the half down by six, which was not at all an insurmountable deficit. Sherlock still wasn't very impressed by Appledore—they did have the best record in the league, but Barts' season had also been going very well up until now. They could certainly win today, assuming that everyone played up to potential for the rest of the game.

As they filed into the locker room, Campbell asked John what he'd found out about his car.

"It's the alternator," John said. "They said they could fix it tomorrow, but it's going to be probably $500." 

"Wow, that sucks. Can you afford it?"

John sighed. "I have to. I might ask my mom if I can put it on her credit card because if I use my debit card I won't have enough money for gas for the whole semester."

Sherlock grabbed a water bottle from the ice chest set up in the corner of their meeting area. "I can pay for the repair if you want me to." 

"No, it's my car. There's no reason you should pay for it."

"But you were only driving it because of my birthday." 

"It would've happened anyway, next time I tried to go someplace. Probably while I was on my way to the first day of my internship, knowing my luck." He kicked at one of the folding chairs arranged in front of Lestrade's whiteboard and seemed surprised when it fell over with a clang. "Sorry." He glanced around the room and gave a sheepish smile as he picked up the chair.

Lestrade waved a hand at him. "No worries. But you need to put your car troubles out of your mind and focus on the game."

John nodded and dropped into the chair. Sherlock took the seat next to him. If they'd been alone, maybe Sherlock could've helped take his mind off the car, but there wasn't much he could do about it now. 

"Is your shoulder acting up?" Lestrade frowned at John, then called Mike Stamford over to take a look.

"What? No." John let go of his shoulder, as if he hadn't realized he'd been holding it, letting his hands dangle between his knees instead.

Stamford tutted and motioned for John to get up. "You didn't stretch at all before you started playing, did you? Plus you've been holding both shoulders up around your ears. Relax."

John stood up and shook both his arms out before crossing the room to sit in front of Stamford. Sherlock frowned as he watched John take off his shirt and compression sleeve so Stamford could work on the muscles. Usually John was good at putting aside any outside concerns when it came time to play. Was the car repair really more worrisome than his poor Statistics grades last semester? Or was it something else? It couldn't be a coincidence that John's shoulder started to bother him today of all days. Was he unconsciously reacting to the memory of being injured the last time he'd played against Appledore?

Lestrade spent the next ten minutes outlining their strategy for the second half, which mostly relied on a few tweaks to their usual style of play. He seemed to share Sherlock's opinion that Appledore wasn't outplaying them—they just needed to buckle down and do their best. Sherlock wanted to take the time to mentally review and correct the few mistakes he'd made in the first half and try to plan how to overcome Appledore's strong defense, but it was hard to focus. Lestrade was easy enough to tune out, along with the questions and comments from the rest of the team, but he couldn't stop himself from being distracted by thoughts of John.

Of course part of it was the fact that he was sitting across the room with his shirt off, occasionally letting out a little grunt as Stamford kneaded his shoulder, but part of it was genuine concern. If John was simply worried about paying for his car, Sherlock could help him, if he would let him. But if he was psychologically unable to play well against Appledore, Sherlock didn't think there was much he could do to help, as much as he might want to.

As soon as Lestrade wrapped up his speech, everyone rushed to get out of the locker room and back on the court, newly energized to play their best. John pulled his sleeve and shirt back on and glanced over at Sherlock, who hadn't made any move to get up yet. "You coming?"

Sherlock gave a curt nod but didn't move. "Go ahead. I'll be out in a minute." He needed to get his head clear more than he needed to take a few shots before they started playing again. 

He closed his eyes and started to picture what he wanted to do in the second half. Whatever Appledore threw at him, he knew how to handle it: if he was double-teamed by Moriarty and one of his guards, all he needed to do was find the free player on his own team, likely Campbell or John. Yes, John would be open, if he was playing well again, if his shoulder didn't hurt and he wasn't— _Stop_. He made himself focus again before his imagination took off after John. _Concentrate._ But every time he tried, John interfered. Of course Sherlock always had other players to consider when he played, but he didn't normally care about them beyond how they affected the game. He didn't want to completely remove John from his mind, but he needed to find a way to keep their relationship off-court from interfering with the one on-court, to separate the two parts of his life. _How?_

He pictured John as he'd been earlier today, when they'd gone to the restaurant, wearing Sherlock's old coat and grinning. _Perfect._ He didn't want to lose that image, but he couldn't have it interfering with his game, either. Maybe he could just...store it someplace else in his memory. _Is that possible?_ He imagined the basketball court in his head was part of a larger building, and opened one of the doors leading off the court. He gave the John in his mind a quick kiss and then pushed him through it, closing and locking the door behind him. _There._ Later on tonight he could open the door and relive all his non-basketball memories of John. Now he used the couple of minutes he had alone to rehearse his play for the rest of the game. When he was satisfied that he was ready to play, he got up and went to join the rest of the team.

They started the second half with their usual lineup. Noah had held his own so far, which meant Brez leaving had had no real effect on their game. Lestrade wanted them to try to move the ball around even more than usual, so Appledore would have to keep their defense spread out rather than double-teaming Sherlock, who'd been the leading scorer in the first half. It worked, at least for the first few minutes. Pass, rotate, pass, rotate, set a pick, keep going until someone was able to take a shot. Simple but effective. Tay scored twice and then Sherlock hit a three; Appledore only added two baskets in that time, which meant Barts pulled to within three points. 

John brought the ball down the court again and they started to pass and rotate once more. Sherlock got the ball low but didn't have a clear shot so he took a short dribble and then passed to Noah, who quickly threw it back to John. Two defenders had come out to guard Sherlock and didn't get back into position in time, which meant John had room to move. He put the ball to the floor and dribbled past Moran, who was near the top of the key instead of his usual position closer to the basket. John took advantage of it. Moran was much larger but also much slower; John was past him before he could react, driving straight down the lane to the basket. 

With no one in front of him to block his way, John went in for an easy, right-handed layup. Moran had turned to follow him but the ball was already through the hoop by the time he caught up. The ball swished through the net as John turned mid-air, his body already anticipating the run back to the opposite end of the court.

Just before John landed, Moran caught up to him. Sherlock saw him try to stop, but too late. He slammed into John just before John's feet hit the ground. John landed on his side with a grunt, curling his legs up protectively as Moran stumbled over him. 

Once Moran had recovered his own balance, rather than stopping to help John up as most players on other teams would have, he sneered and swaggered away, heedless of the ref's whistle as he was called for the foul. 

Sherlock reversed the automatic backpedal he'd begun when he saw that John had made the basket. John was still on the ground; as Sherlock approached he rocked up to sitting, then immediately hunched forward, clutching at his left shoulder with his right hand, though it had been his right side, not his left, that had hit the floor. 

"John?" Sherlock extended a hand to help him up, which John ignored.

"I'm all right," he said through clenched teeth, making no attempt to get up. He drew up his knees up and leaned his head against them, still holding his shoulder.

Noah and Tay joined Sherlock in standing next to John. "Dude, that was flagrant," Noah said, glancing over at Moran, who was standing near the Appledore bench, taking advantage of the lull in play to talk to his coach for a moment.

Sherlock shook his head. It had been a foul, but not a serious or purposeful one. Since John had made the basket, he would get one free throw. If he ever got up off the floor.

"Come on, get up and get your extra point," Tay said, giving John's foot a light tap with his own. John moved his foot away but didn't try to stand.

After a few more moments, Lestrade jogged onto the court, Mike Stamford trailing behind him. "Hey." Lestrade bent, hands on his knees, to speak to John. "It didn't look like that hard of a hit. Can't you get up?"

John lifted his head from his knees and grimaced. "It hurts."

"Is it dislocated?" Stamford squatted next to him, reaching carefully for his shoulder. John moved only the bare minimum amount necessary to let Stamford examine him. "No, feels okay," Stamford said.

"I just landed hard. Give me a minute."

"You landed on your right side," Sherlock said, and John scowled up at him. After a bit more prodding from Stamford and a few more groans from John, he got to his feet without moving his left arm at all. Since the coach and trainer had been out on the court to attend to him, he was required to be substituted out, but it was clear from his stiff gait as he walked to the bench that he was in no condition to keep playing anyway.

Anderson came in for John and both teams rearranged themselves on the court for the free throw. Sherlock found himself back near the half-court line with Anderson as well as Moriarty and one of his guards. Moriarty glanced sideways at Sherlock and gave him a sly smile. "Hope your boyfriend's okay. Wouldn't want him to miss another season." 

Sherlock froze for a moment, unable to tell if Moriarty was simply trying to insult him by calling John his boyfriend, or if he somehow had learned of their relationship. "What did you say?" He took a step toward him, glad Moriarty was shorter than he was; there weren't a lot of players he could intimidate with his height.

It didn't work. Moriarty stood grinning at him, clearly not intimidated. "I think you heard me." The words themselves were completely innocent, but Sherlock's skin crawled at the way Moriarty delivered them. He smirked at Sherlock, ignoring everyone else on the court. The self-satisfied look on his face was so infuriating that Sherlock took another step toward him, right fist clenching, knowing that if he took a swing at him he'd be ejected from the game but too incensed to care. Moriarty rocked up onto his toes and then back down again, as if anticipating Sherlock's potential attack but making no move to avoid it. 

Sherlock took one final step closer and then felt a hand close around his upper arm. Anderson wedged himself in between him and Moriarty, putting his back to Moriarty so he could look Sherlock in the eye. "Not worth it," he said. "We can't win if both you and John are sitting out."

Sherlock snarled at Anderson, who raised his eyebrows in reply without letting go of Sherlock's arm. The fact that Anderson had an excellent point was maddening but unavoidable—Sherlock jerked out of his grasp but didn't try to go after Moriarty.

"Oooh." Moriarty shivered. "Such anger."

Sherlock spun on his heel and stalked to the other side of the court, Anderson following him, presumably to make sure he didn't change his mind and go back for a punch. Sherlock raised his hands in disbelief. "One of us still needs to guard him so they don't get a fast break. Idiot."

Anderson ignored the insult and returned to stand near Moriarty while Noah went to the foul line to take John's free throw. Since John couldn't do it himself, Coach Magnussen got to select a Barts player to take his place at the line. In theory this ensured that a player didn't fake an injury to allow a better player to take a foul shot; in practice it meant the worst free-throw shooter on the floor was sure to be chosen. Noah had only attempted a dozen free throws in games all year and had missed half of them.

He missed the shot he took now, too. Appledore got the rebound and turned it around for a quick three points—their guards could all shoot, which was a problem since Barts was trying to concentrate on double-teaming Moriarty.

And now Sherlock wasn't even doing a very good job of that. He couldn't help but glance over at the bench every few seconds, trying to determine how seriously John had been hurt. This was exactly the same problem he'd been having at half-time: John dominating his thoughts to the point where it interfered with his game. Meanwhile, Appledore pulled ahead by two more baskets, giving them an eight-point lead.

 _Enough._ Sherlock took a deep breath to focus himself. Plenty of other people managed to have relationships without losing their ability to play ball, and most of them were idiots. He could certainly do whatever they did. He took one final glance at John, who was holding an ice pack to his shoulder as he cheered on the team, and then pushed his worry about him away from the court, back into one of the imaginary rooms he'd created outside of the gymnasium. 

The next time Barts got possession, Sherlock called for the ball before Anderson had the chance to run a play. Anderson didn't hesitate in passing it to him—Sherlock suspected he didn't even like playing point, despite the fact that he'd done it for most of last season. Sherlock dribbled the ball for a moment, letting Moriarty get close but not close enough to try for a steal. He put his head down as if he meant to drive to the basket as John had done but when Moriarty reacted Sherlock abruptly reversed his dribble, stepping back into perfect position for a three-point shot. The ball sailed through the air and he could hear John cheering his name from the bench as it went in. The sound buoyed him—the cheerleaders were off at their own competition in some sunny Southern state, but Sherlock would take John's hoarse shout over their rhyming chants any day. 

Over the next five minutes, Sherlock scored six more points. Appledore's attempt to double team him had almost no effect. Tay and Campbell each added a basket, but Appledore continued to match their every point, so Barts was still down by five with ten minutes left to play in the half. 

Sherlock jogged to the bench when a timeout was called. He was energized enough to keep playing without pause, though he wouldn't turn down a cold drink of water. John popped up from the bench to let Sherlock and the others sit; Sherlock hadn't even been looking directly at him, but something about the motion gave him pause. He squinted at John, the bottle of water in his hand temporarily forgotten. "You—" Sherlock started, and then it clicked. "The way you just jumped up from the bench. Your shoulder—it's psychosomatic."

"What?" John frowned at him, reflexively reaching to hold his shoulder although he had abandoned the ice pack at some point.

"You're only in pain because you think you're in pain."

"I know what psychosomatic means, asshole. This isn't psychosomatic. It really hurts."

"I know it really hurts," Sherlock replied. "And if you did know what it means then you'd know I'm not saying that I don't think it hurts, just that the cause is psychological, not a physical injury."

John dropped his hand from his shoulder and took a large step toward the bench, placing himself inches from Sherlock, who had to lean back to look up at him. "Say it's all in my head again, why don't you?"

Lestrade cut in, tugging John back by his uninjured arm. "Hey, hey, cool down."

John wrenched his arm away from Lestrade, then crossed both arms over his chest, winching at the motion. "It hurts," he repeated.

Stamford stepped over to the huddle. "He could have a point, John. No one's doubting that it really hurts, but you've had worse bruises in practice that didn't stop you from playing."

John frowned at Stamford, then at Sherlock. He stuck his tongue out between his lips, clearly considering whether to be offended or convinced. "So if you're right, what am I supposed to do about it?"

Sherlock shrugged and opened the bottle of water he'd been holding. "Play through it?"

"Should I?" John turned to Lestrade and Stamford, who looked at each other.

"If you're sure there's no physical injury he's going to make worse," Lestrade said.

"There's nothing obviously wrong with the shoulder," Stamford said. "I mean, we could send him for a scan if you want to be cautious, but he didn't land on that side. It wasn't like last year, when Moran was clearly trying to put him out of commission."

John shivered and glanced over at the Appledore bench, then shook his head. "I want to go back in."

"All right." Lestrade looked down at his clipboard, where he'd started to diagram a play. "You're in." He wrinkled his nose at the players on the bench. "Jenkins, you sit for now. Anderson, stay in there and see what they can do with all three of you shooting—" He was interrupted by the blare of the buzzer signaling the end of the timeout. "All right, come on now. We can do this." He clapped his hands together. Sherlock found it was easy to match his enthusiasm, given the good run he was having coupled with the prospect of John playing once more. 

He hoped that Appledore would be forced to stop double-teaming him now that John was back in the game, but after a few trips up and down the court, it became clear that John wasn't going to be his normal offensive threat. Apparently hearing that his pain was psychosomatic wasn't enough to banish it—he was obviously still hurting, his movements lacking their usual graceful fluidity. He went to his right on nearly every play, which Appledore immediately noticed, adjusting their defense accordingly. And while he was normally able to handle the ball and make lay-ups with either hand, when he shot from any significant distance he used his left hand, but now he was either unable or unwilling to raise that arm above shoulder-height. The one shot he attempted was a half-hearted, right-handed lob from the top of the key; it grazed the edge of the backboard but didn't go near the hoop. Tay got the rebound and passed it back out to Sherlock, who dodged his own defenders and sank a jump shot. 

So. It was up to him, then. He started to take as many shots as he could, though with the way he was being guarded he couldn't get free as often as he wanted. Still, he did his best, trying to make up for John's timidity. It was easy for him to find an extra dose of aggression; all he had to do was take one look at Moriarty's greasy smirk, or Moran's lumbering, over-muscled posture. 

Sherlock added eight more points, but Appledore matched each basket. Lestrade benched John again with five minutes left to play, putting Jenkins back in to try to give them a better chance on the boards. Anderson all but ceded control of the game to Sherlock, who did the best that he could, but it wasn't enough. To beat a team that played as well as Appledore, they needed John to lead them.

Still, Barts didn't give up until the very end, and with less than a minute left to play, Sherlock thought they might still have a chance. They were down by five when he took a shot from the three-point line, which would have put the game within their grasp. As he planted his feet and squared up, Moriarty surged toward him. Good—if he got fouled in the act of shooting a three he would get three free throws, and he led the team in free throw percentages. But Moriarty stopped inches from him, hands raised and a comical look of innocence on his face that made Sherlock want to slap him. He released the ball instead, but as soon as it left his hands he knew the shot was off. It hit the rim and ricocheted right into Moran's grasp, and Appledore was off down the court again, blowing past Barts' attempt to stop them.

When the final buzzer sounded, the score was Barts 61, Appledore 66. Even with Appledore double-teaming him for most of the game, Sherlock ended up with 28 points, his best performance of the year. John had zero points. If he'd contributed even half of his average of twelve, they would have won.

After the game, the team sat through Lestrade's dissection of what they'd done wrong. Since Sherlock was actually quite pleased with his own performance, he let himself drop out of basketball mode and focus on John again. John, who sat looking miserable now but who had looked so good earlier today as they celebrated together. Sherlock didn't want to end the day like this—he resolved to kick Anderson out of their room and cheer John up when they were done here. Finally Lestrade stopped talking and they were free to leave. Sherlock tossed his game shoes into his locker and pulled his new coat on over his warm-ups; at least there weren't many students around campus to see how ridiculous that looked.

John was taking his time, his shoulder clearly still bothering him, whatever the cause. By the time he finished changing his shoes, almost everyone else had cleared out of the locker room. Sherlock leaned up against the row of lockers, waiting.

John stood up from the bench he'd been sitting on and threw his shoes into his locker. He kicked it shut, then kicked it again.

"Hey. It's just a game." That wasn't normally Sherlock's own philosophy, but the platitude seemed appropriate for the moment.

John sighed and turned to face Sherlock, sagging sideways against his locker. "I know. It's just—Appledore. I hate them. I really fucking hate them. And I can't believe I let them do this to me again." He raised his shoulder up and then dropped it again, grimacing.

Sherlock stared at him, wondering how he could salvage this day. "Come here." When John didn't move, Sherlock grabbed him by his uninjured arm and yanked, making him stumble off-balance. Sherlock caught him and wrapped both arms around him, his coat billowing out to surround them both. John pressed himself against Sherlock's torso, then tipped his head up for a kiss.

"Hey, keep it in the bedroom!" Tay rapped on the end of the row of lockers as he and Campbell passed by on their way out of the locker room.

"Piss off. It's my birthday," Sherlock replied. He lowered his head again and shifted his hips; John giggled against his chest until Tay and Campbell were gone, then slid his arms up, linking his hands behind Sherlock's neck. Sherlock kissed him again, then straightened up, so John was forced to stretch to reach his mouth. 

John growled and pushed himself up higher, practically climbing Sherlock's torso in the attempt to keep their heads even. He pressed a rough kiss to Sherlock's lips, then tightened both his arms, fingers digging painfully into the back of Sherlock's neck. Both hands, equal pressure, the muscles of his arms tensed against Sherlock's chest. John held the position for a moment, then dropped back down to stand flat on the floor. "Shit," he said, though Sherlock could feel him starting to shake with laughter.

"I told you," Sherlock said, and let go of him. "Psychosomatic."

"Damn it." John stretched, tracing circles with both shoulders and rolling his neck. "I hate it when you're right."

"No, you don't." Sherlock grinned at him. "Come on, let's get out of here. I've still got a couple of hours left to celebrate my birthday."


	23. Chapter 23

For the next week and a half, Sherlock's whole life consisted of basketball and John. They had double practices on the days they didn't have games, but with no classes or other students on campus, he and John were still able to spend more time alone together than they had since they'd met. John got his car fixed the day after Sherlock's birthday, which put him in a much better mood than he'd been in when they played Appledore. 

Sherlock did notice a couple of moments in their next game against Adelphi where it seemed John's psychosomatic shoulder pain might be flaring up again, but neither of them mentioned it and it appeared to subside. They beat Adelphi by seven points, lost by four to Southern New Hampshire, and then demolished Pace University on the road on the last Saturday before the holiday break ended. Lestrade spent the bus ride home talking about how happy he was that the team had been able to come together and adjust their game with the new starting lineup. Sherlock himself was just as pleased with his own performance. He didn't have a repeat of his 28-point Appledore game, but at least it seemed the shooting slump he'd been caught in earlier in the season had finally ended.

Classes started again on the third Tuesday in January; Sherlock found himself a bit resentful that not only was the campus full of other students once more, but John was starting his internship and would be off-campus all day, every day, Monday through Friday. With his commute, he would barely be back in time for their late-afternoon practices.

Sherlock woke up that morning alone in his room. Of course he and John hadn't spent the night together, but even Anderson wasn't around. He must have got up and gone to class already—he'd been complaining about how early his psychology course was. Sherlock considered staying in bed, but eventually his hunger overruled his laziness and he got up and went to breakfast. 

The dining hall was virtually deserted at this late hour, so he ate alone, which was something of a novelty after the last three weeks of being either with John or their entire team nearly every waking moment. When he'd finished eating, he went back to his room and got out his violin for the first time since Christmas. He'd been a bit reluctant to play it when anyone else was around—he certainly didn't mind showing off his talent on the basketball court, but his music was different. The violin wasn't meant for an audience, only for himself.

The string bit at his fingertips, which had lost most of the calluses that formed when he played regularly, but the slight discomfort was a welcome price to pay for the ability to lose himself in his music for a while. He didn't realize how long he'd been playing until the door to the room opened, startling him enough to break his concentration.

"What the hell is that?" Anderson stood in the doorway and stared.

Sherlock dragged the bow across the strings in an unspoken comment on how stupid Anderson was. "What does it look like?"

"Where did it come from?" 

"I brought it back at Christmas." He waved his bow at the case that sat open next to his closet. "It's been sitting in the corner there for three weeks." 

Anderson wrinkled his nose and stepped into the room, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders to land on the floor. "I didn't notice. Why'd you bring it back? There's no way you'll have time to do orchestra and play ball."

"I'm not trying to join the orchestra. I just want to play, all right?" He put the bow back on the strings, lightly this time. 

Anderson shrugged. "All right. You sounded pretty good, before you started scratching at it like that. Don't you have Chem soon though?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's only the first class."

"You have to go. It's way harder than the classes you were taking in the fall."

"Just because you flunked out of it last semester—"

"Shut up, it's a tough class, all right? We can't all be genius musician athletes."

Sherlock lowered the violin and pointed the bow at Anderson. "I could be a terrible musician and you wouldn't know any better."

Anderson sighed and turned his back to Sherlock as he took off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair. "Go to class."

Sherlock glanced at the clock on his desk. He hadn't really considered going to class today, but he did like chemistry. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. He could give it a shot, anyway. It had to be better than staying here in the room with Anderson. He put the violin away and thought about grabbing a notebook or his laptop, but didn't want to appear too eager. It was only the first day of class, after all.

He ended up being one of the first people to arrive—he could've stopped to get a coffee or something, but at least this way he had his choice of where to sit in the large lecture hall. He picked a seat in the back, at the top of the sloping room, and busied himself with his phone so he could look occupied and unavailable while other people drifted in and found seats.

He didn't expect to see anyone he knew—most of the other students taking the class were juniors—but not long after he arrived Molly Hooper walked into the hall. Well, that could be useful; if he did skip class and needed to know something she could tell him what he missed when he saw her at the team study sessions.

"Hey, Sherlock." She slid into the empty seat on his left, seemingly unsurprised to see him here. "I didn't know you had a game tonight." 

He frowned at her. "We don't." 

"You're wearing a suit," she said, her voice rising at the end as if questioning what she saw. 

He shrugged. "It looks better with my coat than anything else I have." He gestured at the Belstaff he'd folded carefully over the back of his chair. It didn't hurt that John liked how he looked in the suits, even when he complained about feeling underdressed next to him. Sherlock wasn't about to mention that to Molly, though, especially not in a public setting like this.

"Oh. Well, you look nice but it probably won't be very practical on lab days. Not sure if you could fit a lab coat over a suit jacket." Molly pulled out a spiral notebook and turned to the first page in it and he thought he was done having to make conversation, but the next thing he knew, Sally Donovan appeared. She greeted Molly with a smile and then caught sight of Sherlock. "What is he doing here?" 

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Same thing as you."

Sally dropped down into the seat on the other side of Molly, setting her laptop on the desk in front of her. She leaned forward to look past Molly and address Sherlock. "This is an upper-level chemistry course. Why are you in it?" 

He shrugged. "I took a test and this is where they put me."

Sally wrinkled her nose. "I thought I might get to enjoy this class since Philip flunked out of it, but now I have to put up with you, instead."

"Please don't compare me to your ex-boyfriend, Sally. None of us want that." He leaned back in his chair, the impact of the motion impeded by the fact that the row of seating in front of him didn't allow him to stick his feet out dramatically. "And why are you here, anyway? Didn't take you for the science type."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He held a hand up to pacify her. "There's just not a lot of crossover between athletes and hard science, in my experience."

She sniffed and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "Maybe on your team, but that's not true for women. I needed a lab science for my major and chemistry seemed like the most useful choice."

"What's your major?" 

"Criminal Justice," she answered, making it sound like a challenge. "What about you? You going to try to go to med school like John?" 

The thought had never even crossed his mind, and held zero appeal. John himself would be finished with med school by the time Sherlock graduated from Barts, and why was he thinking about John that far into the future? He shook his head. "I have no idea what I want to do."

"Hm, well. I guess you're probably not going to be a P.E. teacher like half of your teammates want to be."

"No." The idea of teaching seemed even more far-fetched than doctoring. To be truthful, Sally's major of criminal justice held some appeal, but he didn't really see himself going into law enforcement, and he wasn't about to admit to her that he thought she'd made an interesting choice. Maybe he'd continue on in chemistry, though he wasn't sure what career he could pursue in that field, either. He had plenty of time to figure it out, though; he had over a year before he needed to declare a major.

The hall was almost full now, and Sherlock was starting to think he would manage to avoid having to sit next to anyone other than Molly, when he felt someone whack him on the shoulder. He looked up in surprise to see Mary standing next to him. "John told me you were taking Chem this semester." She slipped into the seat next to him as he tried to figure out why and when she and John had talked about what classes he was taking. "Wanna be my lab partner? I need a new one since Anderson flunked out."

He stared at her. "Why would I want to work with someone whose last partner failed the class?"

"Come on." She poked him in the arm. "It's Anderson. I only ended up with him because Sally dumped him and didn't want to work with him anymore. He was the worst lab partner ever. He was super-slow and methodical but then he'd still manage to end up with the wrong answer."

Sally snorted; Sherlock ignored her, watching Mary as she unpacked a small tablet and stylus from her backpack. John wouldn't have dated an idiot, and based on the fashionable yet sensible outfit she'd chosen and the way she was handling the tablet, she would probably do well in this class. "Fine. I'll be your lab partner."

"Great! I don't care if you skip out for the first month or so but once it's March I'm going to be away at cheer competitions a lot so you'll need to do all the work then."

He pursed his lips. "All right, but you need to cover me until our season is done." 

"Deal. Don't worry, I can do the work. Anderson might have flunked the final exam, but I got an A and the lowest we ever got on a lab report was a B+. I have a 4.0 average overall, so don't you screw it up for me."

He stared at her, analyzing. Even after months of knowing her, he still couldn't quite pin her down. "Why are you taking this class?" 

She looked at him for a moment and he thought she was about to tell him it was none of his business, but then she shrugged and settled back in her chair, pulling one leg up to sit with her foot on the seat. "I don't know. I've switched my major like four times so far. When I signed up for this class I was thinking about going into nursing, but now I'm not sure anymore. I kind of want to do something more exciting, you know?"

"Like what?" Sally leaned forward to look past Molly and Sherlock at Mary. "You want to be a police officer, too?"

"No, I want to do something where I can travel, see the world, that kind of thing." She laughed. "When John and I were dating, we almost talked each other into joining the Army. He's not still thinking about that, is he?"

Sherlock frowned at her, but before he could do much more than hope that John wasn't still thinking about it, their professor arrived and class began. 

The course ended up being even more interesting than he expected, although the relative anonymity he had as a freshman in a class full of juniors didn't last long. The second half of January saw the team go on a four-game winning streak and the entire student body seemed to grow exponentially more interested in basketball. Everywhere he went on campus, people tried to stop and talk to him and it seemed like he had to turn away a different girl every day. He generally just pretended not to understand that they were trying to flirt with him, but after a while it got exhausting. He wondered if they would leave him alone if his relationship with John were out in the open. Lacking that option, he was grateful for the presence of Molly and Mary and even Sally. If he hadn't had them as a buffer between himself and the rest of the class, he probably would've stopped attending, which would have been a shame because he was enjoying it, especially the laboratory work. 

He and Mary worked well together. Their first lab report was returned during the last week of January. The teaching assistant, who was an idiot who knew less than Sherlock did about chemical reactions, handed them their graded papers at the end of their lab period and then grinned at Sherlock. "Looks like you got a slam dunk on this one." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mary giggled; the TA took that as an endorsement of his humor. "You got a slam dunk, too, Sally," he said, handing her the report she and Molly had written, which made Sherlock snort back laughter, though not for the reason the TA intended.

"What?" Sally said. "We got an A, too. You're not the only smart ones."

Sherlock waved his hand at her. "No, I know. It's just the thought of you dunking."

Sally sat back on her lab stool, hands on her hips. "Oh, very funny. Not like you can dunk, either."

Sherlock straightened up, hooking his feet behind the bar near the base of his stool. "I can dunk."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can." 

Sally tipped her head to look past him. "Mary, you've been to his games. Have you ever seen him dunk?"

Mary squinted at him. "I don't think so."

"Of course not. I don't usually do it in games."

"Because you can't actually do it." 

"No, because it wouldn't be the most efficient use of my skills. But I can dunk and I'll prove it. We can go over to the gym right now."

They finished packing up their lab supplies and crossed campus to the athletic center, Mary and Molly tagging along to watch. Sherlock tried not to think about how he hadn't even tried to dunk in months. His skills and fitness level had increased overall in that time, and he'd put on at least ten pounds of muscle since the beginning of the school year, so he didn't think he really needed to worry, but he would never live it down if Sally were proved right. 

He detoured to the locker room to change his shoes, the prohibition against wearing street shoes on the court too ingrained in his psyche for him to ignore. Plus there was no way he could dunk in his dress shoes. Unfortunately the switch meant he had to wear his basketball shoes with his suit, since he hadn't left a change of clothes in his locker.

As soon as he emerged into the gymnasium, Sally tossed a ball at him. "Hang on," he said, and set the ball on the floor so he could take off his suit jacket and roll up his sleeves.

"Come on, stop stalling. Dunk around me." 

He picked up the ball and dribbled to midcourt, eyeing Sally where she stood about six feet in front of the basket. 

"You can't do it, can you?" she taunted.

"You're in my way." 

"No, that's how this game works. I'm defending you, you get past me and dunk the ball."

"I need a longer run-up to dunk," he admitted. "I could do it on a fast break."

Sally shook her head and then stepped out of the way, waving her hand toward the empty lane. "There you go. An open court. Show us what you got."

He glanced over at Molly and Mary, who were grinning at him from the bleachers. Mary gave him a thumbs-up and then shook her hands as if waving invisible pom-poms.

He shut them out of his mind, focusing on the basket in front of him instead. _I can do it._ He took a deep breath, put the ball to the floor and started to run, nearly full-speed but with enough restraint to keep control of his dribble. Three steps from the basket and he picked up the ball, propelling himself through the air, his body automatically responding to the challenge even though he hadn't practiced this specific motion in months. He brought the ball up over his head as he reached the apex of his jump—he had just enough height to get it over the rim before he let go, slamming it through the hoop with his right hand. 

He landed lightly and turned, grinning, as Molly and Mary applauded and Sally grudgingly nodded. "Okay, but you traveled," she said.

"I did not!" 

"Yeah, you did," said Mary.

Sherlock glared at her, then turned back to Sally. "But I dunked," he said. "Better than you could do."

"Sherlock, you're like six inches taller than me."

"Hm, closer to eight, I think. But it's not about height, it's about strength. If you developed your leg muscles enough—"

"Oh, ask your roommate about how developed my leg muscles are, why don't you? Once I nearly broke his neck."

"Oh, God, no. Why would you say that?" He picked up the ball from where it had rolled against the wall and shook his head violently as if he could clear the image her comment had triggered.

"Hey, Sherlock, your phone is buzzing," Molly said, from her spot on the bleachers.

He glanced up in time to Mary reach over to stick her hand into one of the jacket's pockets and pull out his phone. "It's John," she said, glancing at the screen. "Want me to answer it?"

"No!" He dropped the ball and crossed the gym in three long strides. "Give it to me."

Mary widened her eyes at him and he grabbed the phone from her hand, then turned away to answer it, flashing a rude gesture in her direction in response to her giggles.

"Hey," he said to John, trying to sound as if he weren't suddenly worried about why John was calling him rather than texting. They hadn't spoken to each other on the phone since Christmas.

"Listen, Sherlock, I might be a little late getting back to campus."

"Why? What's wrong?" He could think of a dozen possibilities that could cause a delay. Maybe there'd been a major accident and the hospital was full of injured people and they needed every available person to help, even graduate student interns with no medical experience.

"Just my car," John said. "It's probably nothing, but I want to stop by the garage and get it looked at again."

His car. _Of course._ "Did something happen to it?"

"Not really. It's just the transmission is slipping every time I stop and then try to go again."

That wasn't surprising at all. When he'd had the alternator replaced, the mechanic had told him the transmission needed work, but John had declined to do anything about it, even when Sherlock offered to help with the bill. "Okay," Sherlock said. "I'll tell Lestrade where you are if you're late to practice."

"Thanks. And, um." John paused and Sherlock could hear people talking in the background, hospital staff hurrying about their day. "I hate to ask, but I might need to uh, borrow some money to help pay for it."

"Of course," Sherlock replied immediately. He knew how hard it must have been for John to ask, but it was really the most sensible solution. "Just let me know how much."

"All right. Thanks. Okay. Um. I'll see you soon, all right?"

Sherlock hung up and turned back to the bleachers to grab his suit jacket and put it on. 

"Is everything okay?" Molly peered up at him from where she sat.

"Hm? Yeah. Just John's car again." He shook his head. 

"What's wrong with it? 

"Something with the transmission. Which he knew about a month ago, but he couldn't afford to fix it, and he was too stubborn to let me help pay for it." 

Mary laughed. "He's always stubborn about everything, or haven't you noticed?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Well, now it's bad enough that he's letting me pay."

"Hope it doesn't need a whole new transmission," Mary said. "That could cost as much as a new car. Well, a new old car."

He shrugged. "I can pay for it."

Sally stepped closer, holding the basketball Sherlock had dropped. "I knew you were loaded," she said, moving the ball to her hip and cocking her head to look at him. "Even your name says money. 'Sherlock Holmes.' Who's called that? I bet you could buy him a real new car and not even notice a dent in your bank account."

He narrowed his eyes at her and chose not to reply to the latter part of her statement. "Sherlock is a normal enough name in England," he said, which was not at all true, but how was she to know? 

"Right," Sally said, and turned away from Sherlock, shaking her head. She dribbled the ball she was holding once, then squared up and took a shot from two feet beyond the three-point line. Even Sherlock had to admit she had pretty good form. The ball swished through the net and she laughed. "Who needs to dunk?"

"You don't need to convince me," Sherlock said and then dismissed all thoughts of basketball from his mind. _John's car._ He could use his credit card to pay for the repairs, though he should probably phone his parents to warn them to expect a large bill. Or persuade them to transfer more cash into the bank account he had access to here. Yes, that might be the best idea. He glanced at his phone to check the time: over an hour before practice. Perfect. Plenty of time to make a phone call or two and solve John's car problems once and for all.


	24. Chapter 24

The call to his parents went even better than expected; Mummy had a lot of questions, but once she was convinced he didn't intend to use the money for nefarious purposes, she was more than willing to accommodate him. It was his money, after all. The only possible complication was her statement at the end of the conversation that she was looking forward to meeting John someday.

He made all the arrangements himself, which required missing his classes on Friday, but since that was only French and Chemistry, it didn't really matter. He was already more than fluent in French and he knew Mary would let him know if he missed anything important in Chem.

John's car was supposed to be fixed by Saturday. They had a game that afternoon, so Campbell gave him and Sherlock a ride into town in the morning so they could pick it up. When they were still a block away from the garage Sherlock said, "Drop us off at the corner here." 

"What? No," John said, but Sherlock ignored him, opening the car door to get out and hoping he would follow.

After a moment John did, waving thanks to Campbell before joining Sherlock on the sidewalk where he stood. He stuck his bare hands into his coat pockets and shook his head. "Why do you want to walk so far? You're the one who always thinks it's cold out." 

"I want to look at something here." Sherlock gestured to his right, where a Ford dealership dominated the corner of the street, its rows of gleaming new cars a sparkling contrast against the gloomy winter day.

"What—" John began but Sherlock ignored him again and headed into the dealership's parking lot, cutting diagonally through two aisles of vehicles to reach the front of the building, where there were another half-dozen on display. He stopped in front of the smallest car there, a silver Fiesta hatchback, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure John was still following him. There was no one else in the parking lot at the moment, though people were coming and going at the convenience store across the street. 

John jogged up to him, looking rather more annoyed than Sherlock wanted to see. "What are we doing here? I thought you didn't even know how to drive. Why are you looking at cars?"

"I'm not looking," Sherlock replied, and put his hand on the bonnet—the _hood_ —of the Fiesta. "I already bought one. This one." 

John frowned in confusion. "Are you going to get a license?"

"No. It's not for me." He swallowed and tried to smile, his confidence suddenly slipping as he watched John cycle through a range of puzzled expressions without reaching any sort of understanding. "It's for you."

"For me?" John glanced at the car briefly and then back at Sherlock. "You bought me a car?"

He nodded. "I figured it was better than just wasting more money on fixing your old one."

"Wasting money," John repeated, and took two steps away from Sherlock to look at the car, walking in between it and the SUV parked next to it. 

"Yes. It makes more sense to spend money on a new car than to invest in one as old as yours."

John tipped his head down, seeming to stare into the car through the driver's side window for a long moment. "But I can't.... This must have cost twenty grand, Sherlock. When I said I wanted to borrow some money, I meant a couple thousand. It's going to take me years to pay this back. I mean, I'll have a job this summer, but after that I'm going to have med school loans and—"

"It's not a loan," Sherlock said. "It's a gift." 

"A gift? Sherlock, it's a brand new car."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's a Ford Fiesta. They don't cost very much."

"Don't cost very much," John repeated. He finally turned his attention away from the car and walked back toward Sherlock, stopping a few feet away. "Are you even listening to yourself? It's a new car!"

"Relax," Sherlock said, and put both hands out toward John without actually touching him. "It's not really a big deal."

"Not a big deal? You bought me a brand new car. Without telling me first. Or asking if I wanted it, or if I wanted a silver one or a black one or—" John's voice sped up as he spoke until he suddenly cut himself off mid-sentence and stood there, both fists clenched, lips pinched tight. He took a deep breath, then turned away from Sherlock to pace back and forth a couple times, shaking his head. "No, Sherlock. Thank you, but I can't accept this. It's just too much. I'm going to go get my old car instead. Maybe they'll let me set up some sort of installment plan to pay for it." He nodded once, then set off briskly down the street. 

Sherlock paused for a moment, then ran after him. "John, wait, hang on." He caught up to him but John kept walking down the sidewalk until Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You can't go get your old car."

"Yes, I can. I know it's going to cost a lot to fix it, but it'll be a hell of a lot more affordable than buying a whole new car."

"No, listen to me." He tightened his hold on John's wrist and John looked up at him, eyes narrowed. Sherlock pursed his lips, then admitted, "You can't go get your old car because I sold it to the mechanic yesterday for $300." 

"You what?" John didn't pull his arm away but even through the layers of gloves and winter coat Sherlock could feel him go tense under his grip. 

"I—" He stopped. John's nostrils were flaring the same way they had before Christmas, when Sherlock had told him he thought they should break up. This wasn't like that though—he was trying to do something nice for him. "The guy offered me $300 to take it off our hands and I thought it was a pretty good deal."

"Our hands? _Our_ hands? Sherlock, it's not _our_ car. It's mine. It's the first car I've ever owned, and you sold it without telling me?" He pulled free from Sherlock's grip and crossed his arms over his chest, which was somewhat better than clenching his fists, because at least this way Sherlock was more certain he wasn't about to get punched.

After a few long moments, John lifted his head. He kept his voice low, which was good, given that they were standing on the sidewalk in the middle of town. "You cannot do this sort of thing, Sherlock! You don't just buy people gifts that cost tens of thousands of dollars and you don't get rid of a person's car without telling them! That's basic common sense. Any normal person would know this!"

"I'm not—" Sherlock began and then stopped. He did like to think of himself as different from normal, but he had always considered that a positive trait, though John clearly had not intended to compliment him. He bit at the inside of his lip and tried to think of a way to salvage the situation before it got any worse. "If you really want your old car back, you can get it. I didn't have the title so the sale isn't finalized yet. I just agreed that we'd sell it to him. I mean that you would sell it to him. Since it's your car."

"Damn right it's my car," John said, and started to walk away again, away from the new car dealership and toward the repair shop. 

Sherlock watched him go for a few steps, then ran to catch up once more. "Look, I'm sorry," he said, when he'd pulled even with him. He kept his voice down, though there was no one else on the sidewalk on this side of the street. "I should've talked to you about it first." 

"You think?" John said, and kept walking.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Or you knew that I would've said no."

Sherlock started to protest, then told the truth. "I did think you would say no but I thought it was just because you didn't want me to spend a lot of money on you. I didn't think you'd object to the whole idea of having a new car, and I really didn't think you'd mind me getting rid of the old one."

John finally stopped walking and turned to look up at him. His face was pink, but Sherlock was fairly sure that was from the cold, not anger. After a moment he said, "You really are kind of an idiot, you know that, right?"

"Obviously, but I also think you should consider accepting the new car. It's much better than your old one."

"Obviously." John mimicked Sherlock's tone and rolled his eyes. "But it's just way too much money for you to spend on me."

"It really wasn't that much. Less than you think." That was true, because John had said twenty grand, and the bank check Sherlock now carried in his pocket was for only slightly over $17,000.

"Still. It's a lot of money."

"To you," he said, and then spoke quickly before John could get offended. "Look, just hear me out. You gave me this scarf for my birthday. It's cashmere. It cost a lot, didn't it?"

"Yeah, like a hundred dollars. Not thousands and thousands."

"I know, but it's the same thing. Seriously, I don't mean to insult you or anything, but my family has a lot of money and yours doesn't. So you went and spent a lot of money on me, and I'm just doing the same thing in return. Because I want to help you out, and honestly, that amount isn't going to make much difference to me. My parents spend almost that much flying me back and forth for school here every year."

"So your parents gave you the money for the car?"

"No, I used my own money. They had to transfer it to my American bank account, but it was my money."

"You had that much money in your own bank account."

"I have a lot more than that."

"Jesus." John blew out a breath and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, looking past Sherlock, back at the Ford dealership. "I can't believe you're actually making me think this might be a good idea."

Sherlock knew he needed just a little more convincing. "Think about it. This is the most logical solution. You really need a car, right? Even if they fixed your old one, it's old. It's going to break down again, and it'll be a few years until you have enough money to not worry about it. This car has a warranty that lasts until you're done with med school—it's not going to cost you anything except gas and insurance." 

John sighed again and kept looking toward the Ford dealer, and Sherlock knew he had him. "Come on, at least let's go back and take a look at it, all right?" 

John wrinkled his nose but followed willingly enough. Sherlock resisted the temptation to grab his hand and pull him along so they would get there before he could change his mind.

They reached the row of cars in front of the dealership again and Sherlock motioned at the car he'd chosen. "If you want to pick out a different one, you can, but it might not be ready today." He hadn't been sure what to choose, but he certainly saw enough Fiestas around London when he was home to know that it had to be a decent car if you were looking for something small and inexpensive. And now he was very glad he hadn't gone with anything pricier. "This one is pretty much the base model, hardly any upgrades. Just automatic transmission, since that's what your old car had. Has. And cruise control, because I know you said you wish you had it when we were driving back from Buffalo after it stopped snowing. And the cold weather package, because—" He waved his hand in the air, indicating the upstate New York winter. "It has heated seats."

"I do not need heated seats." John put his hands against the top of the car door and leaned toward it, peering down through the window. "Cruise control does sound good, though."

"What about heated side mirrors? That could be useful, right?" 

John stared through the window a little longer, then walked around to the front of the car. "I can't believe you bought me a car," he said, and let out a little laugh, and Sherlock felt the tension he'd been holding in his chest flee at the sound. 

"So, it's all more or less arranged, but we'll need to go inside so you can sign the papers and everything."

"Oh, right," John said, and stepped back from the window. "They'll need to see my license and insurance info and everything."

"Um." _Damn._ Just when he'd thought everything was okay. "That's already been taken care of."

"What? How?"

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the wide glass front door to the dealership swing open. Good. John was less likely to kill him if there was a witness present. "I may have borrowed your license out of your wallet yesterday when I came here to pick out the car," he said.

"What?" John turned on him but kept his voice low so the person who was now walking toward them wouldn't overhear. "You took my license without telling me?" 

"You didn't need it." Sherlock lowered his head and whispered back. "Campbell drove you to your internship yesterday." 

"Yeah, but—" John cut himself off, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the man approaching them. It was the same salesman Sherlock had done business with yesterday. "Did you pretend to be me?"

"No, of course not. I only had a day, that's not enough time to alter your license photo or disguise myself to look like you."

"You're fucking insane, you know that?" John hissed, and moved closer, pressing Sherlock against the car with the lower half of his body. The hungry look on his face was a bit worrying in its intensity, but also immensely reassuring. Apparently stealing his license and insurance information was a lesser offense than buying a too-generous gift. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then put a hand to John's chest, pushing him away. "You can save the thank you for later tonight," he said, letting his voice drop to a murmur.

John grinned and punched Sherlock in the arm, then turned to face the car salesman, who greeted them both with a handshake and ushered them inside to finalize the sale.

When it came time to drive the car off the lot, Sherlock had another moment of doubt—John hadn't even taken the car for a test drive yet. What if he hated it? Once they were on the road, however, it immediately became clear that he had no need to worry. The car was small, but so was John. It was a tight fit for Sherlock in the passenger seat, and he didn't want to think about trying to squeeze anyone else on the team into the backseat, but for commuting to and from John's internship it would be perfect. And John loved the way it drove, which he demonstrated by driving as fast as he possibly could on the open highway between town and Barts' campus. 

"If you get a speeding ticket or crash and trap us in a burning car, we'll be late for the game," Sherlock said.

"Relax," John said, and put a hand on Sherlock's knee, which would've been much more welcome if he'd slowed down a bit first. "This handles way better than my old car, and you're wearing your seatbelt."

Sherlock settled back in his seat, stretching his legs out as far as possible in the small cabin. He wasn't really worried about John's driving. "You should teach me to drive," he said.

"Ha," John said. "Not likely."

"Why not?"

"Because for some reason the idea of you being behind the wheel is terrifying."

"How fast are you going right now?"

"But I know what I'm doing. I've been driving for years."

"And you're going to teach me."

"We'll see. You'll have to drive on the right side, you know." 

Sherlock laughed and pushed John's hand off his leg. "Keep your hands on the wheel, please."

John shot a sideways glance at him. "I wish we had more time before the game."

"And keep your eyes on the road."

John turned his head back to face forward and kept talking. "I'd pull over into the woods up here by the park."

"Would you? And what would you do then?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Tease." Sherlock adjusted the seatbelt where it fell across his hips. "Maybe later after the game we can go for another ride."

"Mm, sounds good," John said. He put his hand on Sherlock's leg again and pressed the gas pedal down a little bit farther.


	25. Chapter 25

Back on campus, the team was split over who was more of an idiot: Sherlock for buying John a car without telling him, or John for almost not accepting it. By the time John was finished showing off the car to everyone, it was nearly time for the game. 

Lestrade had them out on the court even earlier than usual, running through easy warm-ups and firing up the sold-out crowd that had come to watch their last Saturday home game of the season. They were playing Southern Connecticut, who had beaten them back in December, but Barts had been playing so well lately that Lestrade was confident they could win today.

It was a high-scoring game, and the two teams traded the lead throughout the first and well into the second half. With five minutes left in the game, though, both Tay and Noah ran into foul trouble and Southern Connecticut pulled ahead. Barts stayed close, but couldn't quite tie the score; every time they made a shot, Southern answered with two points of their own. It came down to Barts's final possession. With less than twenty seconds left on the clock, Lestrade called a timeout and Sherlock and John and the others gathered around him. 

"All right. We can do this. We can tie it—if anyone gets a good look, take it."

"We should try for a three," John said. "Get it to Sherlock and let him win it for us."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock. "You feeling it?"

Sherlock nodded. He'd been hitting nearly all his shots today, and Southern hadn't been able to effectively double-team him because John, Campbell and Anderson had all also scored in the double digits. 

"All right, if you've got the shot, take it. If not, don't force it. Get it to whoever's open and we'll settle for two points and overtime. Ready?"

They went back out on the floor. Anderson inbounded the ball to John, who dribbled for a couple of seconds while Sherlock worked to lose his defender and get into position. He called for the ball and John threw it to him. He was inside the three-point line when he caught it, but his defender was a few feet away, so now was his chance. One dribble as he stepped backwards, putting himself fully behind the line, and then the shot: a fadeaway jumper, perfect spin, perfect arc. His defender lunged but it was too late. The ball went through the hoop and the home crowd roared as Barts pulled ahead by one.

There were still seven seconds left on the clock, but Lestrade called for a full court press and Southern Connecticut wasn't able to move the ball up the court in time to score again. The final score was 91-90; John was actually the team's highest scorer, but Sherlock had unquestionably won the game for them. He headed into the locker room feeling high on both the deafening adoration of the crowd and his own sense of accomplishment.

Before he could even start to change out of his uniform, Lestrade pulled him from the locker room to answer questions from the local television and newspaper sports reporters. He'd been interviewed by the media regularly back at Hartswood, but today was the first time he'd had the chance to do it here, and he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed it. Not the actual answering of their ridiculously simplistic and predictable questions, but the knowledge that of all his teammates, he was the one they wanted to interview.

Today's questions were as boring as he expected, but he didn't have to fake enthusiasm in answering. When he'd finished, he returned to the locker room to change and was greeted by a shout from Jenkins. "Three points for the win!" Jenkins yelled, and sent a damp, wadded-up towel flying through the air toward Sherlock. 

The towel hit the low ceiling of the locker room and fell to the floor. Sherlock kicked it back toward Jenkins and then dropped onto the bench in front of his locker. "Jealous?" He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it at Jenkins.

"Not of that scrawny body," Jenkins replied, and threw the sweaty jersey back at him. 

"He is definitely not scrawny." 

Sherlock looked up in surprise to see John swagger across the locker room toward him. John didn't usually say things like that in front of the rest of the team, and he definitely didn't use such a flirtatious tone of voice. But now he didn't seem to care that Anderson was still getting changed at the end of Sherlock's row of lockers, or that Tay and Campbell were standing by the door to the coaches' office, talking about their plans for the evening. He stepped so close to the bench that Sherlock couldn't bend to untie his shoes unless he wanted to graze John's chest with his head. He inhaled and resolved not to let anyone see how John's proximity affected him. "You're in my way."

"Am I?" John edged even closer. "So move me."

Sherlock put one hand on John's chest—he was fully dressed in his street clothes—but before he could push, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's arm. "You just won the game for us. You should be rewarded." He ran his index finger along the bottom of Sherlock's wrist and everyone within hearing distance groaned. 

Tay pushed himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against and crossed the room toward them. "Sorry, Sherlock. You're gonna have to wait for your _reward_. You two have other plans for tonight." 

John let go of Sherlock's arm to face Tay. "What are you talking about?"

"There's a big party off-campus tonight. The whole team's going, including you." He poked Sherlock in the shoulder.

Sherlock rubbed at the spot Tay had touched and pursed his lips. "Mm, parties...not really my area."

"Yeah, we know. John used to like a good party, but he hasn't been to one since the beginning of the season. Every week we've been making excuses about why the two of you aren't around, and it's getting harder and harder to do."

Sherlock shrugged. "So tell them I don't like parties."

"No. A thousand people saw you make that three. They want to celebrate with you."

"No more than 200 of them were students, and they just want to get drunk and hook up with each other. No one cares if I'm there or not."

John sagged back against the lockers. "Tay's right. People do expect to see us at parties, especially when we win. It helps build up more student support for the team."

Sherlock frowned. Sometimes John took his team captain responsibilities a little too seriously. 

"Yeah," Anderson chimed in. "And this party is going to be a big deal, because we won and it was our last weekend game at home before the tournament. People will be looking for you, Sherlock. And if they realize that it's you and John who aren't there again, they might start to put two and two together."

"I doubt it," Sherlock said, just as John put his hands on his hips and said, "I really don't care if they do." 

"Really?" Anderson said. 

John sighed. "I care and I also don't care." He let his head drop against the metal locker behind him. "I'm getting pretty fucking sick of hiding all the time, that's for sure. But I also think it would be a giant shitstorm if everyone found out."

Sherlock understood. He wasn't ashamed of who he was, or of what he and John were to each other, but their personal lives were no one else's business. 

"We should go to the party," John said.

Sherlock looked up at him for a moment, then nodded. 

"What time does it start?" John asked. 

"Seven," Tay said. "Hey, you get to drive your new car! Won't be all bad, right?"'

"I'm not giving you a ride," John said and flipped Tay off.

"Don't need one. Got my man Campbell to drive me."

"You can give me a ride," Anderson said; apparently Sherlock was the only one picking up on any possible double entendre in John's words.

"He'll give you a ride if you stay out of our room for the next hour," Sherlock said. 

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Fine."

John ended up giving both Anderson and Jenkins a ride to the party—they sat in the back seat, at least, even though Jenkins had to slouch so his head didn't hit the roof.

The party was at a house about a mile away from campus. Barts didn't have any fraternities or sororities, but that didn't stop groups of students from throwing large parties in the off-campus housing where some of them lived. As John pulled up to the old Victorian-style house that would probably hold several hundred people tonight, Jenkins leaned forward between the front seats. "I know you guys don't want to stick around too long. Just stay long enough so people know you're here, all right? Don't be too obvious about not wanting to be here." He was looking at Sherlock as he spoke, though Sherlock knew John didn't want to be there any more than he did. 

"And don't be too horribly rude to people, either," Anderson added. "Everyone knows you're not the friendliest guy but if you're a real asshole then it makes the whole team look bad."

"What? I don't—" He twisted around in his seat to object, but the looks Anderson and Jenkins and even John were giving him silenced him. "Fine. I'll pretend to be friendly."

The house's wide driveway was already full of cars, so John parked on the grass, putting plenty of space between his car and the others nearby. As soon as they were out of the car, three girls spilled off the house's front porch and across the lawn, giggling and shivering in tight shirts and short skirts despite the winter night. They reached John and Anderson first; Sherlock had the barrier of the car between them to keep them at bay. He watched as John's body language beneath the glow of the yard's single lamppost went from wary to welcoming when one of the girls, a tall, too-skinny brunette, noticed that his car was new and asked him about it.

Sherlock was a bit torn, because as fulfilling as it was to see John proudly showing off the car, he certainly hadn't intended for it to be used to attract girls. While John rattled off statistics about speed and miles per gallon, one of the other girls tried to corner Sherlock, but Jenkins stepped in between them and asked her name. She giggled and Sherlock managed to slip away. 

"John!" he called. "Remember how anxious you were to get to this party? Let's get inside where it's warm."

"We could go for a ride to warm up," said the tall, skinny girl, and draped herself over the car door that John had opened so he could show off the interior. Sherlock snarled silently, grateful that he wasn't facing Anderson or Jenkins so they couldn't accuse him of rudeness. 

John took a step back and motioned as if to close the car door, forcing her to move away from it. "No, sorry," he said, and met Sherlock's eyes over the top of the car. "We just got here, so we're going to go inside for a while."

"I can keep you warm," Anderson said, and the girl actually let him put his arm around her shoulders. Jenkins managed to get an arm around both of the other girls, and led them all across the lawn and into the house.

Sherlock's expectation of a loud, obnoxious mass of people was met immediately when they stepped inside. He slipped past a group of students dressed in the school colors who had ambushed John and Jenkins. There was a small closet in the front hall that was literally overflowing with coats that had been thrown in a pile on the floor; Sherlock considered keeping his coat on except it was far too warm in the house. He took it off and folded it as small as he could, then shoved it onto the shelf at the top of the closet, hoping no one else would think to follow his example. 

The only party he'd been to this year had been the one John and his roommates had hosted at the beginning of the season. If he and John left early enough tonight, they'd have a chance for this one to end much as that one had, with the two of them alone in John's bedroom. Until then it was just a matter of pretending to socialize.

When John disappeared into the back of the house in search of beer, Sherlock had to rein in his instinct to follow. Instead, he wandered through the house by himself, taking stock of the situation. There were people everywhere, but the concentration was highest in the two large rooms at the front of the building; the room on the left was also the source of bad pop music being played at a volume high enough to permeate the entire house. Since he generally hated any music that wasn't classical, he drifted away from the sound. 

He continued through the house, waiting for John and making note of where people he knew were in case he needed to use any of them to escape from unwanted attention. Molly was standing at the edge of a crowd of people who were dancing, though she wasn't moving much herself. Maybe he could pass the time by talking to her—their interaction would be much less awkward now than it had been at the party back in October.

He made his way across the room to her, ignoring the people who tried to stop him to congratulate him on today's game. Molly had her back to him, but when he said her name she turned her head, then her whole body toward him.

"Hi there!" she said, and gave him a slightly drunken smile, then turned back toward the guy she was standing next to. "This is Sherlock," she said. "Sherlock, this is—" She paused for a second, presumably having a hard time coming up with his name. "Tom! He's in my microbiology lab."

"Hi," Tom said. "Good game you had today, wasn't it?"

Sherlock glanced at him—relatively tall but too thin to be an athlete, hair cut too short to be attractive, not actually a basketball fan although he was pretending to be to impress Molly. He opened his mouth to tell Molly that—after all, she should know what type of guy she was wasting her time with—but before he could, John appeared at his elbow, holding two red plastic cups.

"Oh, there you are," John said. "I couldn't find you and I was starting to think you'd found someone to disappear upstairs with." He laughed and Sherlock shot a quick glance over at Molly and Tom. She was hiding a smile behind her own plastic cup, but Tom seemed to think nothing of the comment. _Good._ In the few minutes that he'd been here, Sherlock had already seen several tipsy couples headed up to the bedrooms on the second floor. The fact that Tom thought it plausible that Sherlock would leave John to do the same was rather reassuring.

John raised one of the cups he was holding. "This one's for you. Pepsi," he added, when Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "It was either that or Red Bull."

"Thanks." Sherlock took the drink and gulped half of it, turning away from Molly and Tom. He lowered his head so only John would hear him. "How long do we have to stay?"

John shrugged. "An hour or two?"

Sherlock groaned. "I don't think I'll make it that long."

"Just stick with me. It'll go by fast."

It did go by fast, at least at first. Sherlock stayed close to John and they made several rounds through the house together. Most of their teammates were either pairing off with girls or engulfed in large groups of people, but John didn't mind jumping in and talking to strangers, and for the most part no one tried to talk to Sherlock after their first few attempts. He didn't need to meet new people—not only was their whole team here, but so was the women's team and most of the cheerleaders, including Mary. There was no reason for him to expand his social circle.

They spent well over an hour circulating through the party, with several detours outside so John could show more people his car. Sherlock stayed with him, although around John's fourth or fifth trip into the kitchen for beer, Sherlock elected to wait in the dining room. Jenkins was there as well, along with a dozen other people playing some sort of game that involved both the winners and losers chugging alcohol. Sherlock leaned against the wall and waited for John to emerge from the kitchen, but when he finally did, he wasn't alone—he was flanked on either side by two girls, one of whom Sherlock recognized by sight if not by name. 

John met Sherlock's eyes and smiled. The girls continued to chatter at each other as if John weren't standing in between them, which was good, because if they'd seen John's smile it might have made them wonder a bit. That was the smile Sherlock usually saw right before John started to take off his clothes. The girl who looked familiar was a cheerleader, but Sherlock knew that most of the cheerleaders didn't know about him and John. The whole women's basketball team knew, he was certain, but Mary at least seemed pretty good at keeping secrets from her team. 

John and the girls made their way through the room to Sherlock. The beer in John's hand was already half-empty. "Hey," he said, when he reached Sherlock, and there was that smile again. 

Sherlock had to glance at the girls to distract himself. They rearranged themselves so they were standing in between him and John, clinging to each other's arms. "This is Hannah," the cheerleader told Sherlock. "She's a big fan."

She didn't look particularly familiar—about John's height, dark blonde hair with lighter, artificial highlights, skin tanned despite the fact that it was February—but that described half the girls on campus. "Hello," he said, hoping she would go away quickly so he could start trying to convince John it was time to leave. 

Hannah made a disturbing squealing noise and tightened the hold she had on the cheerleader's arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked. 

"She's never heard you speak before," the cheerleader said. "She didn't believe me when I told her how deep your voice was."

Sherlock stared at them. "How have you never heard me speak? I was on the news not three hours ago." _Honestly._ If she was going to call herself a fan then she needed to pay better attention.

Hannah giggled and turned to press her face against the cheerleader's shoulder. The cheerleader was giving him a dirty look, though, as if disappointed Sherlock wasn't flattered by Hannah's interest. 

He frowned and glanced at John, looking for a way out of the conversation, but was saved instead by Jenkins, who appeared next to the girls. "Did you know that I also have a deep voice?" Jenkins asked, and put a hand on Hannah's free arm. She turned to look up at him, still giggling as he drew her and her friend away to join in the drinking game. 

"Let's get out of here," John said, and grabbed Sherlock by the elbow. Sherlock jumped to follow him, though apparently John only meant to leave the room, as he led Sherlock through the hall and into one of the living rooms in the front of the house. This room was packed as well, but there was one free cushion on the end of a sofa. John nodded for Sherlock to sit and then perched next to him on the sofa's arm. He raised his cup of beer toward Sherlock, then bent close to be heard over the music and people laughing and talking. "You should try some. After the first couple it tastes pretty good."

Sherlock grimaced and took advantage of the heavy background noise to answer without fear of being overheard. "Beer is disgusting. I'm going to need you to brush your teeth when we get back to campus."

John laughed as if that were the funniest thing he'd ever heard and slid off the arm of the sofa, onto Sherlock's lap. 

"Whoa." Sherlock forced himself to laugh as well and glanced around, trying to see if anyone was watching them. Most likely no one would even think twice about two teammates, one slightly drunk, horsing around so that one of them ended up on another's lap, but they still needed to be careful. He pushed John sideways off his lap and slid in the opposite direction as far as he could, given that there were two other couples currently groping each other on the sofa. "How many beers have you had?"

"Just a few," John replied, and moved again, apparently trying to get closer to Sherlock. And yes, male athletes did tend to be quite open to physical contact with each other—he'd been hugged, chest-bumped and had his head rubbed by the rest of the team more times than he could count, even after he'd come out—but snuggling on a sofa where others were currently hooking up was more than a little bit over the line.

"Mm-hm." Sherlock looked around the room again. No one was looking directly at them, but he couldn't be comfortable sitting with John like this in public. John wouldn't be either, if his inhibitions hadn't been lowered so much by the alcohol he'd consumed. And if John kept up what he was doing, creeping his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck to twist his fingers in his hair, Sherlock wasn't going to be able to restrain himself for much longer, either. Surely they'd been here long enough—they had to get out of here, now.

He stood up abruptly enough that some of John's almost-empty beer sloshed onto his shirt, and the other people on the sofa all stopped pawing at each other to look up in surprise at Sherlock's sudden movement. He glared at them, remembering too late that he'd agreed to try to be friendly, and then motioned at John to stand up as well. "Come on. You've had enough."

John didn't object. He let Sherlock haul him to his feet and then followed him through the house, though they were separated several times by people either stopping to congratulate them on the game or trying to flirt with one or both of them. 

As they made their way through the mass of people, Sherlock looked for anyone he knew. He wanted to tell someone they were leaving, since their teammates had all been so insistent that they come to the party in the first place, but everyone he saw was surrounded by other people. Even Anderson had managed to find someone to put up with him—it was the girl who'd wanted to go for a ride in John's car earlier. Based on the way he and the girl were both laughing and preening, Anderson wasn't going to want to leave with them now. He and Jenkins would have to find their own way home later tonight, because Sherlock wasn't going to wait around for them. Finally he found Mary and Sally talking in the hallway outside the kitchen. Good enough—they could let the others know they had left.

John bumped into him when Sherlock stopped to speak to them. He sighed and shook his head, then turned to the girls. 

"I'm taking John home. He's a bit too uninhibited to stay any longer."

"I am not uninhibited! I've only had four beers."

Sherlock suspected four might have been when John had stopped counting. "That girl with the purple hair just asked you if you wanted to go upstairs with her and you said you were taken, then turned bright red and started giggling."

John's eyes widened and he straightened up to his full height. "I never giggle!"

"You really do," Mary said.

"You sounded like a 12-year-old girl," Sherlock told him. "We're leaving now."

Sally frowned at him. "Please tell me you're driving and not him." She nodded at John, who had strayed back down the hall toward the kitchen, presumably in search of more beer. 

Sherlock didn't hesitate at all. "Of course. I'm not letting him get behind the wheel." He strode down the hall and grabbed John by the arm so he could drag him toward the front door before anyone could question it, pausing only to retrieve their coats from the closet in the front hall.

John followed him outside without protest but then stopped and squinted at the line of cars in the yard. "Uh, maybe we should wait a little bit because I did have a few...."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Give me your keys."

"What? No."

"Yes. Come on. It's safer for me to drive sober than for you to drive drunk."

John blinked at him. "I don't think that's true. We could walk back to campus. Not that far." He turned to stare off down the road, as if he could see the campus from here even though it was a mile away and it was dark beyond the small circle of light from the lamppost they were standing by.

"We could walk if we had to, but do you really want to leave your new car here overnight?"

John turned back to look at his car parked at the edge of the lawn. "No. Some drunk guy would probably piss on it or something."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, thankful that he hadn't been to any other parties if that was a regular occurrence. "Give me your keys," he repeated, and put his hand out. 

John dug in his pocket for them, but didn't hand them over immediately. "If we get pulled over, you'll get a ticket for driving without a license."

"Which I'm sure carries a less severe penalty than you being arrested for driving under the influence. Plus I'm less likely to get pulled over in the first place, because I'm sober."

John dropped the keys into Sherlock's outstretched hand. "But you don't know how to drive." 

Sherlock had been vaguely aware of some of his classmates at Hartswood learning to drive, and he'd been riding in cars his whole life. "How hard can it be?"

They climbed into the car and Sherlock adjusted the driver's seat to account for the difference between his and John's heights. "Seatbelt," John said, and Sherlock complied with the instruction. 

"Now step on the brake when you start it," John said. "The pedal on the left." 

"Yes, yes." He turned the key and heard the engine come to life, then reached out to put the car into reverse. It didn't move at all when he gingerly took his foot off the brake, though when he stepped on the gas the car lurched backwards more than he expected. He quickly braked again and the car rocked to a halt, having only gone a few feet backwards, although it had certainly felt like more. 

"Whoa, gentle!" John said and rested his hand on Sherlock's knee. "You need a light touch. And you should make a three-point turn so you can see the road instead of trying to back up onto it."

Sherlock exhaled and removed John's hand from his knee. "I know. I've got it now." It took a few attempts, but eventually he managed to drive forward and then backward enough times, turning the car with each movement until they were finally facing the road. 

From there it was easy: not much more than a mile to campus, nearly all of it on one two-lane road, with only two traffic lights which were both green as he reached them. Why did everyone make such a big deal out of driving? Once the basketball season was over he was definitely going to get his license.

There was a guard at the booth at the student parking lot near the dorms, but he waved them through when he saw the sticker on the side window. Sherlock parked in the back of the lot, where there was plenty of room so John wouldn't complain that he parked too close to any other cars. 

"You're a pretty good driver," John said, and leaned over to kiss Sherlock. 

Sherlock kissed him back for a second and then pulled away, wiping at his mouth. "I wasn't joking about brushing your teeth."

"Sorry," John said, and fumbled with undoing his seatbelt buckle. 

Sherlock got out of the car and walked around to open the door for John. He wasn't so drunk that he couldn't walk, but he also wasn't exactly as steady on his feet as he should've been. Sherlock was grateful that they'd been able to grab an hour alone in his room before the party, because he was fairly certain that once he got inside and undressed, John was going to do nothing tonight but fall asleep. Sherlock didn't mind too much; he would much rather spend the rest of the evening alone with a sleeping John than at a party full of other people.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some brief basketball notes: a "double-double" is when a player gets double-digit statistics in two categories in a single game. They could have double digits in scoring, rebounds, assists, steals or blocked shots.
> 
> The NCAA is the organization that governs intercollegiate athletics at most U.S. colleges and universities.

With the Saturday win against Southern Connecticut, expectations were high for their next game. After practice on Tuesday, Lestrade pulled Sherlock and John aside.

"There's a press conference in an hour. The local media is thrilled that we're playing St. Rose tomorrow. It's the first time in years that we've both had a winning record this far into the season and they're going to really play up the rivalry. I want both of you there and looking good. You'll need suits and showers." 

Sherlock didn't think there was a particularly strong rivalry between Barts and St. Rose, but they were close geographically, so it made sense that the local news would want to feature the story. He went back to his dorm to shower and change; when he returned to the athletic center, John was already there, dressed in his blue suit and a striped tie.

Lestrade shepherded them to one of the small classrooms they usually used for film studies after games. "All right, it won't be a long conference, ten, fifteen minutes tops. John, you know the drill. Sherlock, they're going to ask you about Saturday's game, what you’re hoping to do tomorrow night, maybe some softball questions about being from England. Please be polite. Even if you think the question is stupid, try not to say that. Don't make me or John have to jump in and save you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knew how to give an interview. True, a pre-game press conference was a bit more formal than answering a few questions after a win, but he'd certainly done it before, back in prep school. Even if he had been unsure of himself, having John at his side now was enough to put him at ease. He sat down next to John and waited for the cameras. 

There were four reporters: a sports writer from the Albany-based newspaper and three television reporters from the local stations. They only asked Sherlock a couple of questions about basketball, disappointingly. While he understood that the coach and the point guard were generally acknowledged to lead the team, it didn't seem fair that Lestrade and John got to talk about game strategy while he was asked things like what he missed most about home. He hadn't lived in England for four years; by now he felt more at home in his dorm room here. _Or in John's room._ He quashed that thought and answered that London had a much better selection of takeaway food.

He sat back in his chair and waited to see if they would have any more questions for him, preferably something sport-related. At least Lestrade seem pleased that he'd been polite. 

The newspaper reporter—he was the one who'd asked about London—raised his voice recorder. "One more question for you, John." 

John shifted forward in his chair, hands folded on the table in front of him, an eager smile on his face. "Sure, Brian," he said, as if he and the reporter knew each other personally.

The reporter—Brian, apparently—pressed a button on his recorder and asked, "Where'd you get the new car?"

John froze for a long, awkward moment, then finally said, "Ah. What?"

"Two years ago I wrote a front-page feature about how you nearly had to drop out of school before Barts gave you a scholarship because your family couldn't afford the tuition. It was the most popular article I've ever written about the team. People love a good human interest story. Now you've got a brand new car. Did you come into some unexpected windfall?"

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see that John had no idea how to respond—his fingers were digging furrows into the backs of his hands where they were clasped together. Sherlock leaned toward the microphone in front of him, quickly searching for a way to save John from the question. "I've heard it's a common American practice to take out a bank loan when buying a new car," he said, keeping his voice even and calm.

The three other reporters who were there all laughed, although Brian looked disappointed. Lestrade shot a quick, puzzled glance toward John and then cleared his throat. "Does anyone have any more basketball questions? We do have a game tomorrow, you know."

The reporter from Channel 6 raised her microphone. "The Northeast-10 tournament is only three weeks away. Do you think you have a chance at being one of the number one seeds?"

Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, the tournament is actually three-and-a-half weeks away, and anything is possible between now and then. Right now we're just focusing on tomorrow's game and playing the best ball we can. We're not worrying about the future."

Sherlock thought there was an excellent chance that they would get one of the number one seeds—Appledore would be seeded first in the Northeast Division, of course—but he knew Lestrade wanted to be deliberately vague with the press. Anyway, right now Sherlock was more concerned about John, who was still visibly flustered after the question about his car. They fielded a couple more questions about the rest of the season before Lestrade dismissed the reporters and led Sherlock and John out of the room and down the hall to his office. 

The minute the office door closed, John pulled his tie loose and said, "What the hell kind of question was that?"

Lestrade turned to face them and shrugged, wiping a hand over his face. "I don't know." He paused. "Unless you think he knew Sherlock bought you the car and he was trying to out you?"

John's eyes widened but Sherlock shook his head. "No. Too roundabout. If he was trying to out us he would've just asked if we were together."

"Huh. Yeah, I guess," Lestrade said. "Well, John, don't worry about it. I think he was just hoping for some human interest story about you inheriting a bunch of money or something. But since there's no story it won't even make it into the newspaper."

"I hope not. I really did think he was trying to get me to say Sherlock bought it, though. Glad you thought quicker than I did." He nodded at Sherlock.

"Well, that's not hard to do," Sherlock said, and grinned. 

After a moment, John smiled back and neither of them mentioned it again as they headed off to grab a late dinner in the dining hall.

Lestrade was right. The story that ran in the newspaper the next morning didn't mention John's car at all—it was a strictly sports-centered piece about that night's game. The whole press conference was filmed, of course, but only about 30 seconds of clips made it onto the evening news. The local cable news channel did post the entire press conference on their website, but though Sherlock watched it twice all the way through, he was fairly certain no one else would bother to do so.

The game that evening was in Albany. Despite the hype created by the local media, it was not much of a contest. Though St. Rose had beaten them earlier in the year, Barts won handily this time.

Sherlock played well but didn't get interviewed after the game—the honors this time went to John and Tay, who had a double-double with 12 points and 10 rebounds. Sherlock lingered in the locker room after he changed, waiting for John instead of going out to the bus with the rest of the team. 

John and Tay were in high spirits by the time they got back from talking to the reporters. Obviously, John had only been asked about basketball this time, not his personal life. Sherlock leaned against the wall and watched him change, enjoying the easy way John bantered with Tay as much as the view as he took off his uniform. 

Lestrade came in a few minutes later to tell them to hurry, though when John shouldered his bag and headed toward the door Lestrade asked him to wait. "I need to talk to you for a minute."

"Ooo, getting in trouble with the coach!" Tay called as he left the locker room and Sherlock paused, wondering if that could possibly be true. 

Lestrade saw Sherlock's hesitation and shook his head. "You can stay, too. It has to do with you, somewhat."

Sherlock frowned and moved closer to John, who gave him a smile that might have been meant to be reassuring but was clearly forced.

Lestrade rubbed at the back of his head. "Ah, so. Remember when Brian Miller asked you where you got your car?"

"Yeah," John replied.

"It was yesterday," Sherlock said. "Of course he remembers."

"Right, well. I'm still not sure why he asked you in the first place, but it turns out there are some repercussions."

Seeing the look of panic on John's face, Sherlock took another step closer to him as Lestrade continued. "I didn't want to tell you before the game, but this afternoon the Athletic Director's office got a request from Appledore College. They want AD Tompkins to open an investigation into how you got the car."

"An investigation—" John looked at Sherlock and then back at Lestrade, who held up his hands.

"I know, I know. There's nothing to investigate. I think they're hoping to find that you accepted an improper gift."

"I—I didn't. Improper?" He looked at Sherlock again.

"No, don't worry, neither of you did anything wrong. Getting a gift, even a large one, from a teammate doesn't violate any rules. It would only be a problem if a school employee or an athletic booster or someone like that gave it to you."

Sherlock knew that; John should, too, so there was no reason for him to look so concerned. "Why does it matter at all?" Sherlock asked. "Why should we care about what Appledore wants us to do? Our AD doesn't need to do an investigation just because they ask him to."

"No, AD Tompkins doesn't have to investigate. But if Appledore thinks we're hiding something and we refuse to do an investigation and make the results public, they could report us to the NCAA. I know there's no real violation here, but trust me, we do not want to be subjected to an NCAA investigation. Even though they wouldn't find any wrongdoing, it would not be good publicity for John or the team or the school."

John exhaled. "Okay. So what are you going to do?"

"That's why I wanted to talk to you. To both of you. _I_ know there's no violation of the rules about accepting a gift. AD Tompkins doesn't know that, though, because until he got the request from Appledore he had no idea that you even had a new car. I didn't tell him that Sherlock bought it for you, because—well." He looked back and forth between the two of them. "It's not really something most teammates would do for each other, and I didn't feel it was my place to explain the situation between the two of you."

"The situation between the two of us," John repeated and turned slightly away from Sherlock and Lestrade, tipping his head up to stare at the ceiling. 

"I mean—" Lestrade stammered before collecting himself. "Come on. You know what I mean. I can tell the AD that your boyfriend bought you a car but I figured first I should ask if you wanted me to do that."

John was quiet for a moment, then turned so he was facing them again. "AD Tompkins is a good guy. If he finds out Sherlock and I are together, he's not going to care. Or spread it around to the rest of the campus."

Lestrade sighed and took a step backward so he was leaning against the locker room wall. "Yeah, see, that's the problem. It's not going to stay between just me and Tompkins. His office will have to make an official investigation, and there'll be written reports and everything, so there will probably be a number of people on staff who find out about it. We could try to keep it vague, maybe just say a friend gave it to you without naming anyone, but with wording like that it will seem more suspicious, like we are trying to cover up an improper gift. The more specific detail we provide, the better we look from an investigative standpoint."

Sherlock had met AD Tompkins a few times, but hadn't dealt much with his staff beyond signing the commitment letter last year when he'd decided to attend Barts. "Are you telling us that the Athletic Department is going to broadcast details of our personal life to the campus at large?"

"They wouldn't be that unprofessional, no," Lestrade said. 

"But?"

"But it's Appledore that's asking for this investigation. We don't technically have to give them any sort of explanation, but I'm fairly certain that they won't be happy if Tompkins just tells their AD that his department has investigated and found no violation. They would demand more details, and if they don't get them they'll go to the NCAA. So it would be best if we could tell Appledore exactly what our investigation found, and who gave you the car."

"And then Appledore would know about me and Sherlock," John said. "Oh, God."

"Yeah. And I don't trust anyone at that school. Their AD would tell Coach Magnussen, of course, and I am one hundred percent certain that he would use that information against you. Not openly, of course, but you can bet that his whole team would find out."

John paced a few steps away in the narrow locker room hall and then came back. "We don't really have any other choice, do we? I mean, even if AD Tompkins doesn't investigate now, Appledore will contact the NCAA and then they'll investigate, so at some point, it's going to come out that Sherlock gave me the car."

Sherlock thought that once John had overcome his initial reluctance to accept the car, the whole issue had been resolved, but now he could see that John was regretting the gift again. He frowned. "Sorry. I guess I could have kept the car in my name but let you use it. I just really wanted it to be yours."

John shook his head. "There was no way to know that this would happen. How did Brian Miller even know that I had a new car?"

"Probably because you told about 200 people about it at the party on Saturday," Sherlock said. The reporter wasn't much older than college-age; he could've been at the party and no one would've even noticed.

"What? I—okay, yeah, I guess I did."

"Oh, you remember?"

"I wasn't that drunk."

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock said.

"Hey, save your bickering for later," Lestrade said.

"We're not bickering," Sherlock said. "We're having a conversation."

Lestrade sighed. "Why don't we all get on the bus and you two can continue your conversation there and let me know what you want to do when we get back to campus? I managed to put AD Tompkins off today because we had a game, but I'll need to talk to him tomorrow."

By the time they got onto the bus, there was only one row of empty double seats left, across from Anderson and behind Tay and Campbell. Sherlock was tempted to tell them all to move farther away so he and John could have some privacy to talk, but that would doubtless make everyone curious and more likely to eavesdrop.

John took the window seat and Sherlock perched sideways in the seat next to him, one leg pulled up beneath him and his back to the aisle and Anderson.

"What the hell are we gonna do, Sherlock?"

"I don't know," he said. He let his shoulders sag. On one hand, this wasn't even his problem. John was the one being investigated. But on the other hand, it was all his fault in the first place and he didn't want John to have to face an inquiry alone.

"I just don't see any way to prevent Appledore from finding out about us," John said.

Sherlock nodded. He remembered the way his skin had crawled when Moriarty had taunted him about John after Moran had knocked him down. Though it hadn't been what he said so much as the way he said it—would it really make a difference if Moriarty knew he and John were together? "Moriarty's an evil bastard but what's he going to do to us? Tease us? Who cares?"

John took a moment to reply, then spoke haltingly. "It's not even.... I don't really care about Moriarty. If he knew.... It would spread. Everyone would find out about us, probably pretty quickly. Which...maybe it would be better than us having to hide all the time, and me wondering when I'm going to slip up again, and.... Sometimes when we're walking back to the dorms after practice I just really want to kiss you."

Only the last bit caught Sherlock off-guard. "You want to kiss me when I'm dripping with sweat and exhausted?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm. I'm not sure I'm the kissing in public sort, even if we could."

John looked up at him. "Oh, you would be."

"Would I?"

"Oh, yeah. You wouldn't be able to stop yourself."

Sherlock tried not to react but John's smug grin was too much. He chuckled; John giggled hard enough that Sherlock had to look away. He turned in his seat so he was facing forward, legs stretched out as far as he could. 

John's hand brushed against his where it rested on his thigh. "We could just do it, you know," John said.

"Kiss in public?" 

"Come out. Ahead of this stupid investigation, I mean. So there's no investigation, no report Appledore has to see. We tell everyone we're dating and you bought me a car. End of story."

"We could." Sherlock thought about it. "I mean, I never wanted to be known as the gay basketball player—"

"Yeah, well you probably should've mentioned that to me before we got each other off in my bedroom that first time."

"Shut up. You got yourself off and I came in my pants," he said, and then shook his head. "But I'm serious. I didn't want that to be why people remembered me."

"I know," John said. "And I'm sorry. But I think people are going to find out no matter what we do now. At least this way we'll be in control of it."

Sherlock considered it for a few seconds. Coming out was definitely not his first choice, but John did have a point. "It might be good timing. We've had a winning season and we'll be playing in the conference tournament, probably with a one or a two seed, so people will have other things to talk about." The timing would have been even better sometime during the off-season, when no one was paying any attention to them at all, but with the threat of the inquiry now he knew that wasn't an option.

John nodded. "I don't actually think it would be that bad for us on campus. I don't think it will make a difference to most students, kind of like how most of the team didn't really care when they found out."

"Except for Brez."

"Yeah."

"So only maybe ten percent of the campus would hate us. That's encouraging." He crossed his arms and let his head drop back against the seat.

The seat in front of him shifted and Tay stuck his head over the top of it. "You know we'd all have your backs if you came out, right?"

John flinched forward. "What the hell, Tay? Are you eavesdropping on us?"

"No, you're sitting right behind me. How could I not hear you?"

"You could listen to music or something like everyone else is." He waved toward the other seats around them.

Across the aisle, Anderson pulled one of his earbuds out. "I can actually hear you, too. I was trying not to listen but...." He shrugged. 

Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. They weren't even halfway home yet. 

Campbell's head appeared next to Tay, and Jenkins came from several rows back to sit next to Anderson. "Tay's right. If you two go public and anyone's got a problem with it, they'll have to deal with the rest of us first," Jenkins said.

"Why?" John asked.

Jenkins stared at him. "Because we're a team."

"No, I mean, why are you all so...." John let the question trail off but made a motion with his hand toward the rest of the team.

"What?"

"Supportive."

"Because we're a team," Tay repeated Jenkins's words.

"Yeah, but none of you have ever had any problem with...this?" He waved his hand back and forth between himself and Sherlock.

"Oh, the gay thing?" Jenkins said. "That's not a big deal. I've got two uncles."

"What's that got to do with it?" Anderson asked. "I have like, five uncles."

"Oh my God, Anderson, you idiot. I mean my mom's little brother is married to a man, so I have two uncles."

Sherlock smiled at Anderson's confusion, then settled back in his seat. "I admit I was a little surprised about how okay you all were when you found out. Barts is a Catholic school, and several of you are Catholic, so—"

John thumped him in the shoulder. "I'm Catholic, too, you know. Doesn't mean I think everything the church says is right."

"Yeah," Anderson said. "Anyway, if you're gay it's because God made you that way, so I don't really see the problem."

Jenkins nodded. "Catholic Church is against any of us having sex, so what's the difference?"

"Yeah, John sinned just as much with Mary as he is with you, right?" Anderson said. He laughed. "Maybe you should just get married and then it'd be okay."

"Ooh, yeah," Tay said. "You should get married. The whole team could be in the wedding."

John gaped at him. "What the hell, Tay? I dated Mary for a year and a half and you never talked about us getting married."

"Yeah, cause this is more interesting."

John stared at Tay for a moment, then turned to Sherlock. "Did you hear that? Tay thinks our sex life is interesting."

"Shut up, that is not what I said!" Tay protested over everyone's laughter.

After that, the topic of conversation slowly drifted away from Sherlock and John. When everyone else had turned their attention elsewhere and settled back into their own seats, Sherlock glanced over at John, who raised his eyebrows at him. "So are we going to do it?" John asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his hand up on the seat between himself and John. "Yes. Let's do it."

"Okay." John covered his hand with his own. "We'll tell Lestrade we want to come out to everyone. And then we'll see what happens next."

"What happens next is we win the rest of our games this season and then the Northeast-10 title and then we go to the NCAA tournament."

"Sounds good to me," John said, and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked past him, out the window. It was dark out, but he could tell they were almost back to campus, almost home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have slightly made up exactly how an investigation into possible wrongdoing can be started, but it sounds realistic, right?
> 
> If you want to come follow me on Tumblr or Twitter, I'm missdaviswrites at both places!


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock didn't get a chance to second-guess their decision. As soon as they got back to campus, he and John and Lestrade met with the Athletic Director, who after a brief moment spent gaping in surprise, agreed to set up a newspaper interview...with Brian Miller, the same reporter who'd started all this. Everyone seemed to think Miller would be grateful enough to be the one breaking the story that he would give them a sympathetic ear.

The interview was scheduled for Friday afternoon; Lestrade would join him and John in the meeting with Miller. The idea of having to sit down with a stranger and answer questions about his personal life was enough to make Sherlock want to hide out in his room alone, but instead he spent the next day and a half being summoned along with John to meet with an ever-increasing variety of school officials, including the Dean of Students, an elderly priest who told them that God would always love them, which was frankly not very high on Sherlock's list of concerns. 

By the time Friday afternoon arrived, he was more than happy to let John do most of the talking. Unfortunately, Miller kept asking him for his thoughts, too, which was frustrating because the only thing he really wanted to say was "leave us alone," but he knew that he couldn't. 

As soon as the interview was over he did his best to wipe the memory of the entire experience from his mind. He'd become quite adept at keeping John and basketball in separate parts of his head over the past month and a half, with both his game and his relationship improving as a result, but he couldn't quite make himself forget an entire hour of his life. Maybe once the season was over and he had more time he could work on his deletion methods—it would be useful to be able to erase any sort of uncomfortable or painful events from his mind.

Since he knew he couldn't avoid it, he was up at dawn checking online to see if the article Miller wrote was on the newspaper's website yet. By the time they had to leave for their game against St. Michael's College in Vermont, it still hadn't been posted. He stuck his phone in his pocket and grabbed his duffel bag, grateful as he walked across campus that no one else had seen the story yet, either. 

As soon as Sherlock set foot on the bus, Lestrade leaned over the railing in front of his seat to ask, "Did you read it?"

"No, it hasn't been posted yet." He shook his hair out of his eyes and climbed up the rest of the steps to board the bus.

Lestrade sighed. "Haven't you ever seen a printed paper before?" He waved a folded newspaper at Sherlock, who plucked it out of his hand and dropped into the first available seat. He unfolded the paper, quickly scanning the headlines.

"Sports section," Lestrade said.

"Aw, not the front page?" Sherlock looked up to see Tay boarding the bus, John close behind him.

"Front page of the sports section," Lestrade said, and handed Tay and John each a copy—he had a whole stack sitting on the seat beside him. "With a good picture, too."

Sherlock pulled out the sports section and let the other parts of the paper fall to the seat next to him. The picture was from the end of the interview, John in the foreground, Sherlock sitting next to him, close enough that their legs and shoulders were almost but not quite touching. They were both smiling at something; Sherlock didn't remember the photo being taken. He touched his own face with one finger and then started to read the article.

_As I sat down yesterday afternoon with the College of St. Bartholomew's two starting guards and their coach, I knew I was about to have a big story on my hands. I just had no idea what that story would be._

Sherlock swallowed. It was harder to read than he'd imagined. Seeing the words in print meant there was no turning back; everyone would soon know about him and John.

He read it quickly, committing the words to memory so he could analyze it more closely later. The article was uniformly positive, though he did spot some inaccuracies.

 _After taking some time to find his footing on the college court, Holmes has had a stellar second half of the season, despite his initial worries that having a boyfriend might distract him from his game._ "I never said that!" 

John chuckled without looking up from his own copy of the paper. "Yeah, you did."

"Well, I didn't use the word 'boyfriend'."

"Oh, my God," Tay said. "Sherlock. John is your boyfriend. Own it, already. Look at him—he's damn fine, if you like short, blond dudes with round heads. Which I think you do."

John elbowed Tay in the stomach, laughing, and Sherlock shook his head. He still wasn't entirely comfortable with the term, but apparently everyone else was. He went back to the article, which gave a brief history of how he and John had gotten together.

_Neither expected to find himself in a relationship with a teammate. "It just sort of happened," said Watson._

"Okay, now that bit was just you lying," Sherlock said. 

"What? I didn't lie!"

"It didn't 'just happen.' You threw yourself at me before the season even started."

John narrowed his eyes at him. "You—"

Sherlock grinned and went back to the article. 

_Watson dated a cheerleader for more than a year, and Holmes had never been in a relationship before. But both seem content now, stealing shy looks at each other that they think pass unnoticed._

"We didn't do that in the interview."

"Um, yes, you did," Lestrade said, and everyone else on the bus laughed. "You do it all the time."

_Their teammates have been largely supportive, with the exception of Jakub Brzezinski, who left the team in late December. Holmes admits that the one-game suspension he served in November was due to an altercation with Brzezinski, who disapproved of the players' relationship._

_As for their coach, Lestrade says that other than the tension with Brzezinski, Watson and Holmes's dating status has had no effect on the team._

_"It's 2016," said Lestrade. "It's their private life. It's not something that should matter to anyone else. I'm an old man so I see them as kids, yeah, but they're both adults and what they do off the court is their business. As long as they're performing well on the court and in school, I'm happy."_

_And Watson and Holmes seem happy, too. Or at least visibly relieved by the end of our interview, now that their secret is out. Let's hope the rest of the community is as accepting as their team is and that their partnership both on and off the court succeeds._

He looked up when he finished the article to see Jenkins staring at him over the top of the seat. "It's a really sweet ending, isn't it?"

"Shut up, I'm still reading," John said.

"But the reporter dude wants you to live happily ever!"

John put down his paper. "You guys are such assholes."

"No, we're not. We're accepting. Look, it says so right in the paper." Tay tossed his paper aside and then wrapped one arm loosely around John's neck. "My little gay best friend."

John pushed at Tay's arm, trying to shake himself free. "I'm not—"

"You're not gay, we know. You're bisexual."

"I was going to say I'm not your best friend, you dickhead. I'm your captain. Let go of me."

"Yes, sir, captain, sir." Tay released his arm and John thudded against the seat. 

"All right, enough of that for now," Lestrade said. "Everyone take a seat so we can get this bus moving. We've got a long ride but that's okay because I have plenty of game footage for us to go over."

Once they arrived at St. Michael's, Sherlock found it hard to focus during their warm-ups, certain that the players on the other team would know about the article, even though it still hadn't appeared on the paper's website. Once the game started, he was able to put that fear aside, because while the crowd certainly got into the game supporting the home team, the jeers he heard were only the normal insults, nothing directed too personally at him or John.

In the locker room at half-time Eric-the-walk-on told them that Miller's article was now posted on the paper's website. 

"Famous! You're gonna be famous!" Jenkins said.

"Shut up," John said. "And next time you make a lay-up, don't fucking stroll back down the court like you're bored."

"We're ahead by 23 points."

"That doesn't mean you don't have to hustle."

John didn't have to worry. St. Michael's had one of the worst records in the league, and Barts's win was never in doubt. Lestrade pulled all of his starters but Noah out with a couple of minutes left in the game to give the bench players some rare playing time.

Winning by a lot always put Sherlock in a good mood and the bus ride home went by quickly, even with a stop for dinner. Halfway through their meal, he checked online and saw that their story had hit the number one spot on the list of the paper's most popular articles, but the rest of the team had forgotten about it already, or at least grown tired of teasing. 

Back on the bus, Sherlock dozed while John played on his phone next to him. He'd been asleep for a while when he was rudely awoken by a string of expletives. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock straightened up in the seat and blinked at John.

"Where are we?" John craned his neck to peer out the window. "Shit. We're almost to Barts. I just got a text from Mary. The cheerleaders just got back and she said there's a group of students waiting in the parking lot."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Waiting for what?"

"For us. Hang on." He tapped at his phone a couple of times and raised the volume so Sherlock could hear it ringing on Mary's end.

"John?" 

"Hey. We're almost there. What's going on?"

"It's—I'm not exactly sure," she said. "But there are at least 50 people hanging around the parking lot by the athletic center. A lot of them are drunk."

Of course they were drunk. It was Saturday night. Sherlock rolled his shoulders and turned sideways to face John as Mary continued.

"We didn't know why they were there at first. Once they saw it was our bus and not yours, they lost interest. That's when we realized they were waiting for you and Sherlock. Some of them have copies of the newspaper with them."

"Shit."

"No, listen, though. Coach Sheehan was going to call security to come get them to leave, you know, break up the crowd. But the thing is, we don't think they're actually trying to cause trouble."

"What, they're just waiting innocently in the parking lot for us?"

"Um, yeah. Half of them want to get your autographs. That's why they have the newspaper article with them."

"What the fuck?"

"I know. I just wanted to warn you. Coach called security anyway, just because there's so many people and they're drunk and everything, but I don't think they're actually a danger to you. They just really want to see you and Sherlock."

"What the hell? That's fucked up."

"Mm, yeah. I mean, you did win your game and everything but you know that's not why they're here."

John sighed. "All right. Thanks for warning us, Mary."

"No problem. Be careful, though. I think most of them are on your side but I can't really be sure that's true for everyone."

John ended the call. "Crap."

"Yo, don't worry about it." Tay flopped his arms over the back of the seat in front of them. "We can take care of a little crowd for you." 

Campbell stood up and walked back towards Sherlock and John's seat. "I got a text from Sally about the same thing," he said. "She said they got back from their game about an hour ago and people were already waiting for us. Well, for you." He looked up from his phone and shrugged. "Then she said when she and Janine got to their suite, there was a reporter from the school paper camped out in the hall in front of our door, but they threatened to have security kick her out and she left." 

"We have a school paper?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, it's online and publishes a print copy once a week," John said. 

If the school paper hadn't bothered to send a reporter to the press conference that had started all this, they must not have been too interested in the team, Sherlock thought. _But of course now they are._

"Wait a minute." Anderson came from a few rows back to join them, jostling Sherlock's seat as the bus bounced around a curve. "Why is Sally texting you, Campbell?"

"Well, she's not going to text you, now, is she?"

"No, she hasn't spoken to me in months. But I didn't know she was speaking to you."

"Oh, for God's sake, Anderson." Sherlock glared up at him. "She lives across the hall from him, and she can text whoever she wants. Let it go." 

John exhaled loudly and stood up. "Let me through," he said, stepping over Sherlock's legs and pushing past Campbell. He went to the front of the bus where Lestrade sat, then returned a moment later to report, "Okay, the bus is going to let us off by the dorms instead of at the athletic center where they're waiting."

The driver did as he was asked, and the entire team got off the bus in the parking lot behind John's building. Everyone who lived in the suites used the back entrance into their building, leaving Sherlock, Anderson, Jenkins, Noah and Greene to walk across the Quad to their dorm. 

It had been dark for a couple of hours already but it wasn't very late and there were a number of people in pairs and small groups coming and going between the dorms. No one seemed to be watching them too closely, but Sherlock still wished the campus weren't quite so well-lit. Even if he himself didn't stand out in a crowd, the group of them together did, especially given that Noah was literally the tallest person on campus. Sherlock shouldered Anderson out of the way so he could walk in between Noah and Jenkins. Anderson looked like he was going to object for a moment, but instead he just shrugged and then stayed a couple steps ahead of Sherlock as they walked, providing another small measure of concealment. No one tried to approach them, though Sherlock imagined every burst of chatter and laughter that carried through the chilly evening air meant that someone who had seen this morning's article had spotted him. 

Once inside his dorm he relaxed a bit as Jenkins and Noah and Greene headed off to their own rooms and he and Anderson climbed the stairs to the third floor.

"Here, take my bag to the room," Sherlock said. "I have to—" He nodded at the door to the men's room. Anderson grumbled but took Sherlock's duffel for him.

He was washing his hands when the restroom door opened behind him. He flicked his eyes up to the mirror and saw a red-headed girl wearing a Barts t-shirt walk in. "Wrong toilet," he said, and then narrowed his eyes at her as he realized that she had entered the men's room on purpose. Looking for him. He sighed and let his chin drop to his chest before he turned around to confront her. Yes, he'd had girls follow him around campus before, but this was ridiculous. "There's a women's room on the first floor," he said, and crossed to the paper towel dispenser.

"I know. I wanted to talk to you."

"Obviously. You might've chosen a more appropriate location."

"I could have, but I wanted to get you alone."

 _Oh, God._ Either she hadn't seen this morning's article and wanted to flirt with him, or she _had_ seen the article but still wanted to flirt with him. _What is wrong with people?_ He squinted at her and she gave him a smile that was obviously fake. "Sorry you wasted your time," he said, "but I'm not really interested in being chatted up by a stranger in the loo." He balled up the paper towel he'd used to dry his hands and tossed it across the room into the bin.

He took a step toward the door and she rushed to position herself in front of him. "Wait! I haven't even had a chance to ask you any questions yet." 

"Questions?" He stopped and looked at her again: her outfit and makeup were not what most college girls would choose for a Saturday night, though she was clearly a student, a sophomore, hoping to major in— _oh_. He scowled. "The school newspaper. Do you really think you'll be able to pry any information out of me that a real reporter didn't already hear?"

She frowned and then lifted her shoulders in challenge.  
"The interview in the _Times-Union_ made it sound like John wanted to go public but you didn't. Is that true?"

"What? No. Get out of here. I'm not answering your questions. It's none of your business." 

"Come on. Your fans want to know more about you and John." 

"That may be true, but since no one actually bothers to read your paper, they won't be looking to you for more details. Now excuse me." He stepped past her, reaching for the door.

"You need me! Not everyone at Barts is happy to have two gay players on their basketball team. You could use a friendly—"

He let door swing shut on her, trying to make his disdain as obvious as possible as he walked down the hall. By the time he let himself back into his room his hands were shaking enough that he had trouble turning the key. 

Anderson yanked the door open. "What the hell are you doing out here? You sound like a cat scratching to come in."

"Move," Sherlock said, and pushed past him. "Close the door, quick."

"What—are you okay?" 

"Yes. I'm fine." Sherlock dropped down onto his bed and took a deep breath to collect himself. It wasn't the presence of the girl in the bathroom so much as what she'd said about people on campus not being happy with him that had unsettled him. 

"What the hell happened? I thought you just went to pee."

"I did, and then I got ambushed by some girl from the school paper trying to ask about me and John."

"In the bathroom?"

"Yep."

"Wow." Anderson sat down on his bed, across from Sherlock. "I've never known a girl who would voluntarily walk into the men's bathroom here. She must've really wanted to talk to you."

"Shut up." 

"Hey, I'm trying to be helpful here."

"Well, it's not working." He stood up from the bed and went to retrieve his duffel bag from where Anderson had left it by the closet. He dumped out the contents and started filling it with clean clothes.

"Do you want me to go make sure she left?" Anderson asked. "I mean, I should probably go get Noah or someone bigger if I'm going to try to kick her out...."

"Oh, my God. She's like a hundred and fifteen pound girl. And no, I don't need you to go after her for me."

"Fine. I'll stop trying to help."

"Good. I'm going over to John's suite. At least there I can use the loo without worrying about someone following me in."

"All right." Anderson paused for a moment. "And that means I can call Julia and see if she wants to spend the night here."

Sherlock looked up from his bag. "Who the hell is Julia? Wait, never mind. I don't care. Do whatever you want. I'll be back when everyone has forgotten who I am. Don't wait up."


	28. Chapter 28

Ensconced in John's bedroom overnight, Sherlock was almost able to put the whole newspaper affair out of his mind, at least until the next morning when he and John stumbled out of bed to find Tay and Campbell returning from breakfast.

Tay closed the door to the hallway and shrugged out of his coat, shaking a few melting flakes of snow onto the floor. "Yeah, you two probably want to stay away from the dining hall today."

"Oh, shit." John's shoulders slumped and he dropped into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. "How bad was it?"

"I mean, it wasn't bad. There were just a lot of people looking for you. Asking questions, stuff like that."

"What kind of questions?" John asked, unnecessarily—Sherlock could certainly imagine what types of questions.

"Oh, you know," Tay replied. "The usual. If we think we'll get a number one seed and not have to play in the first round of the tourney. If Sherlock really punched Brez for calling him a faggot. Which of you tops when you fuck, that sort of stuff." 

"Oh, Jesus Christ." John brought both hands up to cover his face. "Did someone really ask you that?"

"Don't worry about it. We didn't answer anything too private," Tay said.

Sherlock groaned and started to head back into John's bedroom. 

"Yo, wait!" Campbell shouted at him. "Don't hide in the bedroom. I brought you some muffins so you wouldn't go hungry."

Sherlock turned around in time to see Campbell unzipping his coat to retrieve the half-dozen large chocolate chip muffins that he'd hidden inside. "Sorry, couldn't smuggle out anything to drink." 

John looked at Sherlock and sighed. "We've got Gatorade and some milk left, I think. I should've stopped on my way home Friday before we did the interview and stocked up on food."

"If you get real hungry I can run out to the store for you," Campbell said, and rubbed John on the head as he passed by on the way to his own room. 

"Thanks," John said, then turned to Sherlock. "The girls always have juice and stuff like that. I'll go run across the hall and see what they'll let me steal."

Sherlock got some napkins to use as plates and divided up the muffins, then sat down at the table to eat. John came back a few minutes later carrying a jar of instant coffee and a metal tea kettle.

"Neither of those items are juice."

"Nope, but I'm going to have coffee and you are going to have tea."

"First of all, you are stereotyping me as an Englishman. And second of all, you don't actually have any tea."

John stared at him for a moment, then darted out of the suite again, returning with four boxes of tea cradled in his arms. He dropped them all onto the counter and asked, "Which kind do you like?"

"Guess," Sherlock said. He certainly wasn't about to drink anything labeled "herbal."

John picked up the box of English Breakfast and Sherlock nodded. "It's not stereotyping if it's true," John said, and put the kettle on the stove to boil.

Tay and Campbell came back out into the kitchen while John was still eating his last muffin and Sherlock was lingering over an acceptable cup of tea. Tay grabbed the coat he'd left hanging on the back of one of the chairs. "We're going over to hang out with Noah and Jenkins for a while, then we're going to mass at noon so we can be home for the game tonight." 

"Game?" Sherlock frowned. They weren't playing again until Wednesday.

"It's Super Bowl Sunday," Tay said, then shook his head when Sherlock pretended not to know what he was talking about. "Anyway," Tay continued. "You probably don't want to go to church today, do you, John?"

"Not especially, no."

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock said. "Don't you want to be condemned to hell in front of an audience?"

"Nah, it's not like that," Campbell said. "Love your neighbor, man. We're the good kind of Catholics here at Barts."

"Yeah, I'm still not going with you today," John said. 

"All right. Try not to get too bored sitting around here with your boyfriend all day." Tay and Campbell left and Sherlock and John finished up their breakfast.

John put his dirty mug in the sink and announced that he was going to shower.

"That's nice," Sherlock said. "I'm going to lie here and do nothing." He tossed a throw pillow to the ground so he could stretch out along the sofa.

"Don't you have homework or something you should be doing?"

"Since I'm not leaving this building in the foreseeable future there's no reason for me to do homework."

John shook his head. "Just don't flunk off the team."

"Unlikely," Sherlock declared, and closed his eyes, folding his hands beneath his chin. He listened to the water running as John showered and thought about how they were supposed to exist on a campus where everyone they saw wanted to ask probing questions about their personal life. 

When John finally emerged from the bathroom wearing only a pair of gym shorts, his hair still damp and skin pink from the heat of the shower, Sherlock sat up. "I have an idea," he said, and strode past John into the bathroom, too eager to put his plan into action to stop to explain. 

He showered, washing as quickly and as thoroughly as he could, drying off but not bothering to put on any clothes when he was done. He cracked open the door and called out to John, "We're still alone, right?"

"Yes." John must have been waiting in the hall for him, because he stepped up close to the door to reply, his face mere inches from Sherlock's.

"Good." Sherlock opened the door all the way, letting the steam escape. "I should've asked this before, but do you happen to have any lubricant?"

John froze for a second, then nodded frantically. "Do you mean you want to—?"

Sherlock pushed his still-wet hair away from his eyes. "Everyone on campus thinks that's what we're doing all the time anyway, so we might as well try it. Don't you think?"

"Yes, I—" John turned and ran down the hall. For a moment Sherlock wasn't sure how to read his reaction, but then John reached the door to his bedroom and stopped to look back over his shoulder. "Are you coming or what?"

"That's the plan," Sherlock said, and ran down the hall after him.

He slammed the door to the room shut while John rummaged through one of his desk drawers. He tossed a handful of pens and a roll of tape to the floor, then pulled out a thick white tube. "Here it is." He frowned at the label. "Spermicidal. Guess we don't really need that, huh?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Leftover from Mary?"

"Yeah. And I've got condoms, which I know we should use, but—"

"But we haven't up until now and we've certainly exchanged enough bodily fluids to endanger ourselves already. If either of us were a danger."

"Which we're not," John said, with just the slightest lilt of a question at the end.

"Nope," Sherlock responded. He put his hands out and John tossed the tube to him. "So you used this with Mary and...anyone else?"

"A couple other girls before her, one in high school, one here my sophomore year."

"Just girls? So you've never—"

John shook his head. "Nope. You're my first time. How about you?" 

"Er, once."

"Really?"

Sherlock nodded, then looked over at the posters that hung on John's wall so he didn't have to meet his eyes. "It didn't go well."

"What happened?"

Sherlock grimaced and sat down on the bed. He was still naked but the burgeoning erection he'd had was now gone. He'd hoped he would never have to tell John about this. "So, I didn't really do the whole relationship thing back at Hartswood, you know that, right?"

"You've mentioned."

"Right. So. Anyway, there was this one guy, Victor. He kept stats for our team. And I guess he...liked me? Anyway, he was willing to get me off whenever I asked him to, usually after games. I wasn't really interested in him at all, but he was...useful." When he said it out loud he sounded like a horrible person; maybe he had been a horrible person. He risked a quick glance but John didn't seem too put off, at least not yet. 

He clasped his hands together and looked down at them as he went on. "Usually we'd just sneak away somewhere and he'd give me a quick blowjob, which was all I really wanted, even though I knew he probably wanted more. Like—" He waved his hand between himself and John. "A relationship. But I wasn't going to do that, no way." He laughed a little at how much had changed. "But then at the end of my junior year, our team got to the state semifinals. And we lost, by a lot. At home, no less. I had a good game, and I was pretty upset that we lost. And I guess Victor wanted to cheer me up." He stopped for a moment.

"And?" John prompted.

Sherlock sighed. "So after everyone else had left the gym, he dropped his trousers and I bent him over the scoring table and—" He raised his hands in the air and shrugged.

John blinked at him. "You—"

Sherlock nodded.

"Just like that? Without any prep or—?" John held up the tube of lubricant.

He nodded again and bit at his bottom lip. "I guess I knew it wasn't the best way to go about it, but I didn't really care right then. We had just lost the game that would've qualified us for the state finals and all I wanted was to make myself feel better. So I did what I wanted and then walked away. Never even talked to Victor again after that. He transferred out of the school at the end of the semester."

"Wow." John sat down next to him on the bed, thighs touching. "You were kind of an asshole, weren't you? Well, now's your chance to redeem yourself." He stood up and slipped off his shorts and underwear, kicking them to the side.

Sherlock inhaled and stood up as well. "Um, how do you want to do this?"

"Probably—" John dropped onto the bed, face down, working his knees into the mattress a bit as he spread his legs apart. "How's that?"

"Fuck," Sherlock said. "How's that? Are you kidding me?" He reached down and gave himself one long stroke, instantly hard, then fell on top of John, covering his back and arse entirely with his body. John grunted and pushed up against him; Sherlock held him down with his weight for a moment, then lifted himself up onto his hands and knees. "Are you sure about this?"

"Well, you're not going to just shove it into me. You're going to go nice and slow and use plenty of lube and open me up first."

"Am I?" He pressed down again for a moment, cock jabbing John in the lower back.

"Yes, you are," John replied, and shifted beneath him so Sherlock's cock dragged over his cheeks. 

Sherlock caught his breath and tried to calm himself so he didn't immediately come all over John's lower back. He sat up, kneeling between John's thighs, and ran his thumb from the tip of his spine down as far as he could. John shivered and arched his back.

"Like that, do you?" Sherlock popped the cap on the lube and squeezed some onto his index finger. _Try not to hurt him._ This could work—if he kept himself focused on being slow and careful, he'd be able to hold off his own pleasure instead of being instantly overwhelmed. Because the sight of John's arse spread wide on the bed in front of him was quite overwhelming. He took a deep breath and put his finger against the wrinkled opening. "Might be a little cold," he warned, and then pressed inside.

"Oh, God." John clenched around him.

Sherlock held his hand still, unable to tell from John's tone whether it felt good or bad. "Is it okay?" He'd barely gotten even his first knuckle in.

"Yes, yes, okay," John gasped. "Just stay there for a minute." John put his forehead down on the pillow and took a few long breaths; Sherlock could actually feel his muscles relaxing. "All right," John said. "Keep going."

After the initial intrusion, John seemed to adjust more quickly. Sherlock didn't mind going slow, because it gave him a chance to study how John reacted to each movement he made. _There._ He ran the pad of his finger across John's prostate.

John moaned and pushed back against Sherlock's hand. "Yes, that, that."

Sherlock stroked him again and circled his finger in small movements to encourage him to loosen up more, then tried slipping a second finger in. Again John clenched around him for a moment and Sherlock held still. 

"No, it feels good," John said. "Please." He wiggled his whole body against the bed. 

Sherlock started to move his fingers again. He couldn't see if John was hard, since he was lying on his stomach, but his own cock was sticking straight up, as if straining toward John on its own. He tried to tamp down his own lust. _Not yet._ "Think you can handle three fingers?"

"God, yes." 

Sherlock pulled his fingers out partway so he could squeeze on more lube, then pushed all three in together, twisting them slightly from side to side, then crooking them to glide over John's prostate, which he'd found elicited the best response. 

"Ah, hold still, right there," John said, and thrust back and forth on Sherlock's fingers. 

_Enough._ Sherlock had been very patient; now it was his turn. He pulled his hand free.

"What are you doing?" John looked back over his shoulder. "Are you going to—?" He lowered his gaze to Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's why we're here, right?"

John grinned and then slipped his hand underneath his hips, giving himself a few quick strokes before putting both hands on the bed to raise himself up a bit, as if doing half a push-up from his knees. "How's that for height?"

"Perfect," Sherlock said. He was pretty sure that by this point he would contort himself into any position John wanted as long as it ended with his cock inside John. He squeezed out some more lubricant, rubbing it along himself, though he was already slick with his own leaking fluids. "Ready?" 

"Do it," John said, and shifted his knees so his arse was even more on display that it had been. _Yes._

Sherlock took himself in his right hand, using his left to spread John's cheeks a bit so he could see what he was doing. At first he was hesitant to push in too hard, but after a few careful movements John started demanding he go harder, so he did. It took a few moments to get them both sorted out as to position, and Sherlock's knees kept slipping back on the bedsheet, which was now damp with sweat, but soon enough they worked it out and Sherlock found a rhythm that had them both gasping for breath. He held onto John's hips and drove into him, each thrust ratcheting up his desire. This was far, far better than what he'd done with Victor, and much more intense— _so tight_ —than having John's mouth wrapped around him.

He knew from the sounds John was making that he was enjoying it as well, though since John was holding himself up on both hands he couldn't attend to himself. Sherlock leaned forward, curving himself around John's lower back to try to take him in hand.

"Don't," John gasped.

"Why not?" Sherlock had lost his rhythm when he changed positions and now slowed further. 

"Because I don't want to come now. I want to be able to do it to you."

"To me," Sherlock repeated, and the concept temporarily blotted out all other logical thought. He gave John a few more shallow thrusts, but the idea was too powerful. "Switch now?" he panted.

"Yes!" John scrambled forward and they switched places.

Sherlock spread his legs so he sank down to roughly John's height but stayed upright so he could stroke himself. His cock felt strange with so much lube on it. "Hurry up."

John chuckled and whacked him on the hip. "Be patient." He got to his knees and positioned himself behind Sherlock. Sherlock felt his hands glide across his arse and shivered in anticipation, then tried to make himself relax so it would go easier. John spread his cheeks as Sherlock had done to him, stroked a finger lightly between them, then paused and cleared his throat. "Okay, here's the thing. I don't really want to put my fingers in there."

Sherlock turned his head as far as he could to look over his shoulder. "But you're okay with putting your cock in?"

John nodded.

"And you're planning on being a doctor. You know you'll have to do this and worse to patients?"

"Yeah, but I'll have gloves. Sorry. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll do it." 

Sherlock felt John press his finger firmly against him. "No, stop." He clenched his cheeks around John's finger. "Don't do it if you don't want to."

"No, I want to be in you, though. I do." John had his own cock in his free hand, and a look of determination on his face. 

"Just go slow," Sherlock said.

"Huh?"

"Don't bother with your fingers. Just put your cock against me and then push it in. Slowly." He dropped his voice and drew the last word out; John's eyes slipped halfway shut and his mouth fell open at the sound. Sherlock grinned and looked straight ahead again. He felt John's hand drop away, heard the click of the cap on the lube and the squelch as John squeezed some out. 

He jumped at little at the cold when John pressed his slickened cock between his cheeks. "Sorry," they both said at the same time, and then giggled. 

Sherlock leaned forward some, then inhaled sharply. It was uncomfortable for a moment but John went even more slowly than Sherlock had, and by the time he was all the way in Sherlock was whimpering not in pain but in pleasure.

John shifted behind him, hands and knees knocking against Sherlock's body until he found the right position. "Oh, Jesus, this is better than I thought," John said as he began to move steadily, dragging his cock in and out of Sherlock's arse.

"Better than Mary?" Sherlock knew he shouldn't ask but couldn't help himself.

"Oh, God, it's totally different, but yes. It's more—it's tighter and more sensitive without a condom and...yes. Better."

"Hmm. Maybe you shouldn't be bisexual anymore."

"Oh my God, shut up."

"Make me." 

"Like this?" John shoved forward into him—it did hurt, but when he pulled back again it was exhilarating.

"Yes. I can take it—unh." He almost fell over as John plowed into him again.

"Sorry, that's mean. I won't—" John began.

"Do it!" Sherlock commanded. He dropped both hands to the bed, letting go of his own cock so he could push back more effectively against John's thrusts. After a few more reassurances, John finally overcame his hesitation, plunging into him forcefully enough that Sherlock had to brace himself with both arms beneath the pillow so he didn't go flying into the headboard. 

"Christ, I'm not going to last long," John said, and pressed his chest against Sherlock's back, reaching around with his left hand to take hold of Sherlock's cock. 

"Do it," Sherlock repeated, squeezing tighter around him.

John made a low squealing noise and dropped most of his weight onto Sherlock's back. His hand tightened around Sherlock's cock and Sherlock couldn't stop himself, either. He felt the muscles in his arse spasm around John as he came, sending sprays of semen over John's hand and onto the pillow in front of him.

He collapsed forward, unable to keep his legs from sliding back and pushing John out and away from him. John fell to the side, landing on the edge of the bed against the wall. "Holy shit, that was amazing."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed; actually forming words seemed too difficult at the moment. There was an unpleasant wet spot beneath his stomach and he was face down on John's pillow, which was also wet, but he was pretty sure he was never going to be able to move again.

"Oh, God, Sherlock? Are you okay?"

He managed to turn his head enough to nod, but John didn't seem to believe him. Sherlock jumped when John put his hands on his arse again, then gently parted his cheeks. "Okay, well I don't think you're bleeding or anything but you are probably going to be sore for a few days and oh my God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Don't let me do that to you again. I don't—"

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows and then rolled onto his side so he was facing John. "Shut up. You are definitely going to do that to me again." He narrowed his eyes as he took stock of how he felt. He could feel a trail of fluid running out of him. "Not today, though."

"I'm sorry," John said again.

"Don't be. I liked it."

"You like me hurting you."

"I like you being rough with me." He surged forward to plant a hard kiss on John's lips, then dropped onto his back. "Okay, yes, I might be a little sore."

John set his hand on Sherlock's chest. Apparently he couldn't stop saying how sorry he was. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Oh, come on. You had to do that. Every person on this campus thinks you've been doing that to me since October."

"True. I mean, I definitely do come off as more of a top...."

Sherlock punched him in the chest, not hard, and John laughed and grabbed his hand, then threw himself on top of Sherlock, his hand pinned beneath him. Sherlock kissed him again, then said, "Yeah, get off me."

John rolled off to his right, landing with his feet on the floor and stretching his arms up over his head. "Wow, it's not even noon yet. I could get dressed and go to mass still if I wanted."

"Why, to beg forgiveness for all the sinning you just did?"

"Mm, no. To give thanks for having such a smart boyfriend who comes up with such brilliant ideas."

"I am pretty brilliant," Sherlock said. 

"You are," John agreed, and then climbed back into bed with him. "But I think I'll just stay here so I can worship the beauty of that ass of yours."

Sherlock laughed. "You are definitely going to hell."

"Worth it," John said. "You are definitely worth it."


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock hoped that after a few days the novelty of having a gay couple on the basketball team would wear off, but every time he ventured out of his or John's room, he was proven wrong. On Monday he attempted a trip to the dining hall for breakfast, only to be congratulated for his bravery by a group of fawning freshman girls. _Ridiculous._ He'd done nothing particularly brave—he and John had been forced to out themselves to avoid an investigation by the NCAA. He hated that his personal life was so interesting to everyone. Why did anyone care who he was dating? He would much rather be congratulated for his work on the basketball court, but no one even mentioned the eighteen points he'd scored on Saturday. He decided to avoid using the dining hall, though the comments continued—as he walked to practice late Monday afternoon he was stopped three times by passers-by who wanted to tell him what a cute couple he and John made, what a great role model he was to other gay students, and how sexy he looked in his coat. 

Tuesday morning he thought about going to Chemistry, but the article about him and John had been picked up by ESPN, so instead he spent the day on their website, reloading the comments page to see how many people nationwide objected to gay athletes. If he missed anything important in class, Mary or Molly would let him know. Probably Mary; Molly was more likely to disapprove of him skipping the lecture.

Wednesday was even worse, because the Albany newspaper published a letter to the editor from a local Barts graduate who objected to his school promoting the homosexual lifestyle. "Class of 1966," it said beneath the man's name. _Why is he still alive?_ The paper's website didn't allow for comments on their opinion page, so Sherlock had no idea how many people might agree with the letter-writer. 

As long he showed up for practice no one minded if he skipped meals and stayed holed up in his room for a few days. But they had a game Wednesday night, and that afternoon when John got back from his internship he and Anderson insisted on dragging Sherlock out to eat dinner in the dining hall.

"I've got some granola bars and an orange—that's plenty of food," Sherlock objected.

"Nope, you need more than that," John said. "We need you in top form for the game tonight."

"You could've stopped on your way home and bought me something else."

"No way. We're paying for the meal plan so we're going to eat in the dining hall."

"None of us are actually paying for the meal plan," Sherlock corrected. "Our scholarships are paying for it."

"God, you're annoying when you're hungry, aren't you?" John pulled Sherlock's coat out of the closet and tossed it at him. "I'm not going to spend my money on extra food when we can eat all we want for free, all right?"

Sherlock glared at him, but put the coat on. "Fine. I'll go to the dining hall with you. Would you like to hold hands as we walk to make it easier for people to congratulate us?" 

"Oh, come on," John said. "No one's going to bother us."

"How would you know? You're never on campus anymore anyway."

"Well, I did have one woman at the hospital say she didn't think I looked gay, but then I had about ten people tell me I don't look like a basketball player, so...." He shrugged. "And the woman who said that was older than my mom. No one our age even cares."

John was right, at least as far as the dining hall was concerned. The work-study student who served Sherlock his dinner gave him extra potatoes and wished him good luck in the game, and the usual crowd of fans stopped by their table to do the same, but no one said anything personal directly to him or John. It helped that the whole team was there—Sherlock could only imagine the comments he and John would get if they tried to eat alone together now. 

After dinner they went back to the dorms to get their uniforms and then headed to the athletic center, intending to enter through the side door as they usually did. As they approached they could hear shouting coming from the front side of the building, which faced the main road that led into campus.

John paused before he opened the side door. "Is it a fight or something going on over there?"

"Let's find out," Jenkins said and the team moved as one around the building, toward the front entrance.

As they rounded the corner, a pair of campus security officers rushed past them, toward a crowd of students gathered on the sidewalk in front of the building. There were three more security guards already there—Sherlock hadn't realized they even had more than a couple on duty at any given time. 

"What the hell?" John said as he and the others reached the edge of the crowd. No one was fighting, but thirty or forty students were clustered together, facing a half-dozen older men and women who stood at the edge of the sidewalk. The small group of outsiders were holding signs and shouting at both the students and the passing cars. _Protesters._ Sherlock was too far away to see the words on their signs, but he knew what they said.

The campus guards quickly inserted themselves between the students and the people with the signs, edging the protesters away from the athletic center. From down the road that led into town came the wail of a police siren.

"What's going on?" John asked, even though the answer was remarkably obvious.

One of the girls at the edge of the crowd turned her head to answer. "They're protesting," she said, then did a double-take when she saw who had asked.

Anderson elbowed his way forward to stand next to John. "What are they protesting?"

"Um." She looked from John to Sherlock and then at the rest of the team. 

"Are you kidding me?" John pushed forward. "They can't do that here."

"Yeah, not on our campus." Tay joined John, the students in the crowd easily parting in front of the two of them.

One of the security officers stepped up; Sherlock recognized him as one who normally staffed the athletic center. "They're leaving right now. They're not allowed on Barts property, and town police are on their way to ticket them for trespassing and assembling without a permit."

Sherlock watched as John worked his jaw—he could tell he was considering pushing past the guard, though what exactly he planned to do to a bunch of old men and women Sherlock wasn't sure. 

"You guys don't need to worry about this," the officer continued. "We'll take care of it. You should be inside getting ready to win tonight." He spread his arms, as if to herd the team back toward the building, but Sherlock slipped to the edge of the group and watched as a local police car pulled up with a lazy whoop of their sirens. Two armed police officers got out, but before he could see what they were going to do to the protesters, the security guard grabbed Sherlock by the elbow. "Come on. They're not worth your time."

Sherlock reluctantly followed him into the building. At least most of the students who were gathered on the sidewalk seemed to be yelling at the protesters to get off their campus, although he couldn't be certain it was because they disagreed with them or if they just didn't want outsiders around.

Lestrade met them at the entrance to the locker room, looking more harried than he usually did before a home game.

"There are people protesting out front—" John began.

"Yeah, I heard," Lestrade said; Sherlock caught the quick look he shot at Sherlock before turning back to John. "Ignore them. Security will take care of them."

The guard who had shepherded them into the building stepped forward. "We called the town police in to handle it. We think it's some sort of church group, not anyone from campus."

"Church group?" Lestrade said. "What the hell kind of church group protests against twenty-year-olds? Church groups should be collecting donations for their food pantry or knitting hats for preemies or, I don't know, praying the rosary. Not this." He exhaled loudly and turned away, then turned back a moment later. "All right, enough of that nonsense. We've got a game to play. Anyone who's not already in uniform, go get changed. John and Sherlock, a word in my office, please."

"Oooh, good luck." Tay tried to rub both John's and Sherlock's heads as they walked past him; Sherlock elbowed him in the stomach and John flipped him off.

Once they were all in his office, Lestrade settled back in the chair behind his desk. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I just want to make sure that you two don't waste your energy worrying about those idiots outside. No one was expecting them to show up, but now that we know we won't let it happen again."

Sherlock grimaced. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?" 

Lestrade stared at him, then said, "We're doing our best, all right? None of us really expected this level of attention. Your story has been ESPN's most-read college sports article for the past two days."

John dropped into one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Why? It's not like we're the first college players to come out, and we're not even Division I."

"True, but I think the fact that you're both out and actually dating each other gives it a new spin."

"There you go, Sherlock." John grinned up at him. "You didn't want to be famous for being gay, and you're not. You're famous for dating me." 

"Really not the kind of fame I want," Sherlock muttered. He wished he could take this as lightly as John seemed to be, but he couldn't. He turned to go out of the office but Lestrade called him back.

"I met with AD Tompkins and some of the school's senior administration this morning, and we agreed that we need to do a better job shielding you two from the public."

"Well, you're doing a great job so far. Those protesters hardly even got a chance to call us faggots."

"Sherlock. I'm sorry. That should not have happened. I know we didn't prevent that, but we have taken some other measures. The school has had a number of requests for more interviews with the two of you, but we've turned them all down. I wanted to let you know, because if you really want to talk to more press, you can, but we think it's in your best interest if you don't. Maybe after the season's over you can do more interviews, but for now we think it's better to try to focus on our last few games and then the conference tournament."

Sherlock watched John nod his agreement. A small part of him wanted to object to Lestrade and the school's administration making the decision for them, but mostly he was relieved he wouldn't have to deal with the press anymore. Though he wasn't sure how Lestrade planned to protect them from the public in general.

Lestrade stood up and nodded toward the gym. "You've got a few minutes before we're meeting to go over our game plan. Why don't you go take a few shots, get some of your nerves out."

John stood up quickly, clearly eager, but Sherlock glanced through the window on the office door into the gymnasium. "There are people here already."

"Yeah, the doors open an hour before the game," John said. "You know that."

"I'm not going out there, especially not with you."

"What?"

"Come on, how would that look? Just the two of us, warming up together without the rest of the team?"

"It would look like two guards warming up before a game. What the hell, Sherlock? Are you not willing to be seen in public with me now?"

"No, it's just—" He shrugged.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're ashamed to let people know you're dating me," John said.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said.

"Okay. So you're not ashamed. You just don't want to be seen in public with me. Understood." John turned and pushed open the door into the gymnasium, disappearing before Sherlock could stop him.

He watched through the office window as John grabbed a ball from the rack near the sidelines and then strode to the foul line to practice shots. After a moment, Sherlock turned around so he could exit through the door directly into the locker room.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade said. "Go out there and apologize to him."

"What am I supposed to apologize for?"

"Well, it does kind of seem like you don't want to be seen with him."

"I don't want to be seen with him! Because I'm sick of hearing about how brave we are and how cute we are and things like that!"

"Sherlock, if that's the worst you're hearing.... People are just trying to be nice to you."

"I don't want them to be nice to me. I don't want them to notice me at all. I hate being the center of attention."

"Now, I know that is not true. You love being the center of attention. I've never seen someone so proud to be interviewed after games."

"When it's about basketball! Not my personal life. That's no one else's business."

"Fair enough." Lestrade sighed. "And we are trying to keep the spotlight off your personal lives. But you should still tell John you're sorry when you get a chance to be alone with him." 

Even if he'd wanted to apologize, Sherlock didn't get a chance to be alone with John before the game; in fact John seemed to be avoiding him, running the warm-up drills so they were never paired together. Or maybe that was a coincidence, and Sherlock was overthinking it.

The crowd was bigger than normal for a weekday game—Sherlock's first instinct was that people had come to gawk at the gay couple, but of course the crowds had been steadily growing all season. Most of the fans were there to cheer for Barts, obviously, though the student section behind the opposing team's bench was also full. They were playing St. Anselm College; Barts had beaten them earlier in the year but the game had been close, and both teams had winning records for the season. 

More unusual than the crowd size was the number of security guards at the game. There were always a couple, though the only thing they really ever had to do was remove particularly drunk fans from the stands, and that happened more often on the weekends. But today there were a half-dozen officers, plus during their warm-ups Sherlock saw one of the town policemen poke his head into the gym. Maybe there were still protesters outside, though he hadn't heard any more sirens.

Despite the uncomfortable reminder that there were people nearby who thought he had no place on the team, once he started playing, everything began to recede and he was able to focus on the game. He knew that playing well was the only way he could possibly turn people's attention away from his coming out. 

St. Anselm was a big team, which meant Tay and Noah spent a lot of time fighting for rebounds on both ends of the court. The two teams traded the lead on almost every possession. Ten minutes into the game, St. Anselm tried to pull ahead with a jumper from the edge of the key. Noah blocked the shot and Tay grabbed the deflected ball, hurling it upcourt toward where Sherlock and John were both waiting.

They both moved automatically toward the ball. Sherlock was in the better position to catch it; as soon as his fingers touched the leather he was turning, already running toward the opposite basket. From the corner of his eye he could see John skidding as he tried to slow his approach toward Sherlock and the ball. Sherlock instinctively slowed his own movements as well, leaning away from John so they wouldn't collide. He didn't ever need to crash into a teammate, of course, but today he wanted to run into John even less, and that was a stupid fear. _What's the difference? No one is going to care if we touch on court. We're expected to—we're teammates and this is a physical game. We—_

He hesitated for a moment, slowing his dribble more than he normally would have, allowing John to get ahead of him. That split second of hesitation was too much—one of St. Anselm's guards popped up behind him and got a hand on the ball, knocking it away from Sherlock and into the hands of their point guard, who immediately took a shot and scored. 

The basket only put St. Anselm ahead by four points, but the senseless turnover unnerved Sherlock, since he knew it had happened only because he had shied away from John at a crucial moment. He lowered his head for a moment, then ran back down the court to get the inbound ball from Noah. He passed it quickly to John, as he should, no need to justify it because they were dating. _Come on._ He tried to push everything out of his mind except the game, but the anger he felt at himself wouldn't recede.

John scored two points off of a screen by Campbell and Barts dropped back into their defensive positions. The player Sherlock was guarding tried to drive around him, but Sherlock wasn't going to make the mistake of hesitating again. He lunged forward, reaching for the ball, but too aggressively—his shoulder made contact with the other guard's chest and the St. Anselm player went down, landing hard on the floor. He'd probably exaggerated his fall to make it more obvious, but Sherlock knew he had committed the foul. He threw his hands up in the air anyway, feigning innocence, but it didn't stop the ref from blowing the whistle on him.

It was only the third team foul, but Lestrade called for Anderson to substitute in for Sherlock and Sherlock didn't really blame him. A stupid turnover followed by a senseless foul were reason enough to pull him out. He jogged over to the bench, berating himself for letting his anger get the better of him and losing control of the play.

"Cocksucker!" The shout came from the crowd behind St. Anselm's bench.

Sherlock froze. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever had shouted at him in a game, but today the slur had gained a new power to sting. He knew he should ignore it, but he couldn't stop himself. He took a step toward the other bench, squinting to see if he could tell who had shouted. _That one._ A bland-looking business major who was trying to impress the girl sitting next to him. "At least I don't have herpes!" Sherlock yelled in reply. 

"Sherlock! Sit down!" Lestrade grabbed him by the back of his jersey and yanked him back toward their bench, then stalked away along the sideline, yelling for the referee who had blown the whistle for the foul. "Did you hear that?" Lestrade shouted, pointing to the guy who had shouted at Sherlock. "That's a technical!" 

The referee glanced at him, then motioned to the other official, who jogged quickly across the court. Play hadn't resumed yet, though St. Anselm had been about to receive the ball out-of-bounds as a result of Sherlock's foul. 

The two officials turned their backs to Lestrade and the Barts bench as they spoke to each other, but their conference lasted only a few seconds. "Technical foul, crowd vulgarity. Barts is awarded one free throw!" 

The St. Anselm coach popped up off the bench. "If that's a technical then Holmes should get one, too, for what he yelled!"

"That wasn't vulgar—it's the truth," Sherlock muttered. "He definitely has herpes. You can tell by the way he's sitting." He had the sense to lower his voice this time so that only Jenkins sitting next to him heard it. 

Jenkins elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut up," he hissed, and nodded toward the officials, who had gathered to confer again, this time with both coaches standing next to them. 

The decision took a little bit longer than the last one, but finally the referee announced, "The ruling stands, one free throw is awarded to Barts."

Lestrade walked back over to the bench and moved his clipboard so he could sit next to Sherlock. "They said you were rude but not vulgar, but watch your mouth, okay? You know better."

"I know," Sherlock said, and dropped his head into his hands.

"And they said if anyone in the crowd yells another personal slur like that they'll be removed from the building." 

Sherlock looked up at that. "Why? I mean, I've had worse shouted at me before."

"Yeah, but it's—" Lestrade paused and scratched at his head. "It's wrong," he finished weakly.

 _You mean it's true._ Using gay slurs generally was fine, as long as they weren't directed at someone who was actually gay. Sherlock dropped his head into his hands again and didn't lift it until he heard the home crowd cheer as John sank the free throw for the team.

The extra point didn't make a huge difference in the score. The game had been close up until then, but over the next few minutes St. Anselm went on an eight-point run. Sherlock would have liked to think that it was because he was sitting on the bench, but he could see that it was because now John was rattled enough to be playing poorly, too. After his second turnover, Lestrade sent Sherlock back in, this time replacing John. 

As he and John passed each other on the court, another shout broke out from the St. Anselm student section. This time it wasn't just one person yelling, but a repeated chant of "Gay!" that jumped quickly through the bleachers. Sherlock swallowed and glanced at the officials, envisioning the game being suspended while the entire crowd was cleared out so they could finish playing without any spectators present. Lestrade was already gesturing at the closest ref, but his words were drowned out by a sudden, rhythmic shouting.

"Guess! What?" The Barts cheerleaders, led by Mary, repeated the question three times, then answered with an even louder cheer. "No one cares!"

Lestrade and the referees paused to look at the cheerleaders, who repeated the cheer, coordinating it with jumps and flicks of their pom-poms. The taunting from the crowd petered out in the face of the louder and more organized cheers, and the refs let play continue. 

Sherlock shook his head and turned his focus back to the game. Or tried to, at least, though every time he touched the ball he found himself tensing up as he anticipated another jeer from the crowd. With John on the bench, they weren't able to catch up at all to St. Anselm, though they didn't let the deficit get any worse. Lestrade put John back in before the end of the half, which should've helped them to score but didn't. Every time he and John were near each other, Sherlock caught himself leaning away from him, going to the right as John went to the left, or otherwise subtly avoiding him, which was not at all how a pair of guards were supposed to work. And he was certain that John was doing the same. They ended the half down by twelve points, not the position they wanted to be in against anyone, much less a team as good as St. Anselm's was.

Once in the locker room, Lestrade went straight to the problem. "John, Sherlock, you two sit right there." He pointed to two chairs in the front of the space they were using to meet. "Now look at me, both of you."

Lestrade wasn't going to be able to help, since he already knew what the problem was, but Sherlock looked at him anyway, trying not to let his skepticism be too obvious.

"You two are our best guards. You've been playing together for five months now. John, you've been leading this team for years. Nothing has changed tonight. Got that? Nothing has changed. You need to put the crowd out of your heads and play your game."

Easier said than done, especially when it wasn't only the opposing school's fans who were the problem. Strangers on campus to protest his presence on the team, his classmates giggling about how he and John looked together, even Lestrade and the refs thinking they had to protect him from hearing anything that might be taken as an insult—it was all intolerable. But that was what he had to face now, if he wanted to play and win. And he did. 

He took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on clearing his mind as Lestrade moved on to what he wanted the rest of the team to do. He'd been quite successful over the last few weeks in keeping his personal life with John mentally separate from his game, but today all the barriers had broken down. Now he rebuilt then one at a time, erecting a wall again, not between himself and John but around the entire team, keeping everything they needed to do together to win inside the boundaries of the court and forcing everything else outside so he could block it off. This could work. For the next twenty minutes of game time he would allow nothing but the game.

It nearly did work. The calls of "gay" continued throughout the second half, but the cheerleaders drowned them out, along with the home crowd who picked up the "no one cares" chant. Sherlock used it as his own motto, not letting himself care about what people might think. He had ten points in the second half, doubling his output from the first, and he and John no longer shied away from each other on the court, but St. Anselm continued to play well and Barts never closed the gap. They lost by four points, which brought their record to 14-6 in league play, with only two more regular season games to play. 

After the game, as they walked back across campus to the dorms, Tay and the others wouldn't stop insisting that Sherlock had handled himself well. 

"I overreacted to some arsehole who couldn't even come up with a decent insult. I mean come on. Cocksucker? Was that really the best he could do?"

John laughed. "It's not even an insult. Probably half the people watching that game have sucked a cock."

That got everyone laughing, and by the time they reached the dorms Sherlock had joined in, though he still had mixed feelings about the evening. Yes, he'd recovered well in the game's second half, but he shouldn't have let the crowd affect him so much in the first. 

John lingered with him outside his dorm. It was late enough and cold enough that no one else was around, so they sat next to each other on the low brick wall in front of the building. 

John pulled his coat tight around him and leaned his weight against Sherlock's arm. "Hey, I'm sorry about what I said to you before the game," he said. "I know you aren't really ashamed to be seen with me in public."

Sherlock blinked at him. "I was told that I should apologize to you for that."

"Oh, God. Is Lestrade giving us relationship advice now?" He shook his head. "No, it's okay. We've definitely both been on edge this week. It makes it easy to get snippy with each other."

"Snippy?" Sherlock turned his head so he could warm his nose in John's hair. "I've never been snippy in my life." 

John laughed. "Right. Anyway, I think everything will feel a lot better in a few days. Southern Connecticut lost tonight so that means we only need to win one more game to get the number one seed."

"Mmm. Good." Sherlock nuzzled down farther against John's scalp and John pulled away.

"Your nose is freezing. And so is my ass." John stood up, shivering. "I need to go get some sleep so I can get up tomorrow morning. I'll see you tomorrow at practice, okay?"

Sherlock nodded but before he could stand up John bent down and planted a quick kiss on his lips. He pulled away before Sherlock even had time to kiss him back. They grinned at each other for a moment and then both looked around to make sure no one was watching. Except everyone knew they were together now, so why would it matter if anyone saw? Sherlock felt his smile deepening and for the first time all week he dared to hope that now that they were fully out, maybe he and John could be happy together both on and off the court.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock's cautious optimism didn't even last twelve hours. Anderson returned from breakfast with a packet of instant oatmeal and a folded newspaper. He dropped them both onto Sherlock's chest as he lay in bed. 

"You'll probably want to see this," Anderson said, then added, "Sorry."

Sherlock lifted his head from his pillow enough to see the school newspaper's masthead above the headline, "Team Loses as Watson and Holmes Partnership Fails and Protesters Gather on Campus."

"What the hell?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, tossed the packet of oatmeal onto his desk and reached for the paper so he could read it.

"I know," Anderson said. "I mean I don't read the school paper but I've seen it around and they never put sports on the front page unless it's a championship game."

Sherlock skimmed through the article. The author—the byline said Kitty Riley, and he was sure she must be the girl who'd accosted him in the bathroom last weekend—blamed their loss to St. Anselm entirely on the fact that John and Sherlock had come out, and while it hurt to see it in print, she had a very good point. She also went on at length about the people who'd been protesting before the game, and how Sherlock and John taking their relationship public had brought unwanted attention to the school.

He groaned and let the paper drop to the floor, then turned over in bed so he was facing the wall and pulled the covers up over his head. Maybe he should have talked to Kitty Riley when he'd had the chance. It would've been useful to have her on his side, and she probably wouldn't have written such a negative article if he'd just answered her stupid questions.

Anderson picked up the paper from the floor and tossed it into the pile of recycling that one of them needed to take down the hall sometime soon. "She's wrong, though. She doesn't usually cover sports, and she doesn't know what she's talking about. St. Anselm was going to be a close game no matter what. Last year we didn't even qualify for the tourney, but this year we're going to be either a one or two seed. You and John haven't hurt the team at all." 

A dozen comebacks shot through Sherlock's mind, primarily about how stupid Anderson was to show him that article and then expect to be able to cheer him up, but it was too much effort to say any of them aloud. He pulled the blankets tights around the back of his neck and waited for Anderson to leave again.

He'd planned to go to the dining hall for meals today, but if he went out he would doubtless run into people who'd seen Kitty Riley's article. Even if most of them disagreed with her, he didn't want to have to listen to their sympathy, so he stayed inside instead. He went back to sleep for as long as he could, but by noon he was bored enough that he got up and played the violin until his fingers started to ache.

John showed up before practice with footlong sandwiches from Subway and they ate sitting next to each other on Sherlock's bed, neither one of them mentioning yesterday's game or anything of significance. He wasn't sure if John had seen the school paper today, but since he didn't want to talk about it anyway he didn't mention it.

He'd never bothered to get dressed, but John pulled a clean set of practice clothes out of his chest of drawers and laid them out on the bed. "I'm going to go change out of my work clothes and then I'll see you at the gym in a few minutes, right?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded, although the idea of skipping practice did appeal. Instead he got changed and then put on a baseball cap and his old North Face fleece, which was probably too thin for the current temperature but was much less recognizable than his Belstaff coat. No one even looked at him twice as he slouched alone across campus.

He expected another lecture from Lestrade on ignoring the crowd—it would be stupid and boring and obvious—but Lestrade instead had them scrimmage against each other for an hour and then watch game film from New Haven, their next opponent, even though Barts had beaten them in the tournament before Christmas and then again last month. A light practice the day after a game wasn't unusual, but Lestrade seemed to be going extra easy on them today. The only problem was that sitting and watching film gave Sherlock more time to feel miserable about letting his emotions get the better of him in last night's game. And then he felt even worse for continuing to dwell on it. He still wanted to think of himself as an unsentimental, logical person but he couldn't really do that if he kept letting himself turn into an emotional wreck.

Anderson didn't go back to their room after practice, which was a relief; apparently the girl he'd met was still willing to let him hang around. Sherlock showered and then got into bed, although rather than lying down he leaned back against the pillows and tried not to think about anything in particular, which worked until he was interrupted by a knock on his door. _Great._ He'd made it clear to the team he wasn't interested in socializing tonight, and anyone else had no business being at his door.

"Sherlock, we know you're in there. Open up." That was Mary's voice, which was at least more welcome than some random stranger stalking him. He still wasn't going to answer the door, though. He could hear Molly out in the hall, as well, speaking too quietly for him to make out any words.

The door knob rattled. "Don't make me pick this lock," Mary said. 

He shook his head and didn't answer, not too worried that she really knew how to pick a lock.

The knob rattled again, longer this time, and he could hear a scraping noise, as if she were actually attempting to break in. _Ridiculous._ He kicked back the blankets and stood up to let them in—they deserved points for persistence, at least—and then the door opened and Mary straightened up, grinning at him. 

He blinked at her. "Where'd you learn to pick a lock?"

She shrugged and didn't answer directly. "Comes in handy."

"Teach me how to do it."

"Only if you come with us."

He sat back down on his bed. "No."

"You don't even know where we're taking you."

He shrugged. "Don't care."

"Come on. You've been hiding in here all week."

"Can you blame me?"

"Um, yeah," Mary said, and led Molly into the room. "You're making a big deal over nothing."

"Easy for you to say."

"Let me talk to him." Molly pushed her way past Mary. "Sherlock, it's one thing to skip lectures, but you missed lab today. We're not letting you get away with making Mary do all the work. You're coming with us now to do the experiment you missed."

It was tempting, more so than anything else he'd skipped out on this week, but still— "No. Anyway, the lab probably isn't even open right now."

"I've got a key," Mary said, and produced one from the pocket of her jeans. 

"Where did you get—wait, why don't you just pick the chem lab lock?"

"The science buildings have better locks than the dorms, so I borrowed this one. Are you coming with us?"

He paused for only a moment. "No." 

Mary took a step closer to him, looking as if she were sizing him up to see if she could physically drag him from the room. He crossed his arms. She might know a handful of sneaky tricks like picking locks and stealing keys, but there was no way she could overpower him physically, not even with Molly's help.

"Sherlock." Molly still seemed to think she could change his mind. "I understand you don't want to be around other students right now. But no one else will be in the lab except us."

He bit at his lip, considering, then shook his head. "Sorry. No."

Mary sighed. "All right. We'll just let you wallow in self-pity alone. And if I screwed up the measurements this afternoon then you're going to get a bad grade, too."

"I'll take that risk," he told her, and they left.

He picked up his Chemistry textbook and considered looking at the chapters he'd missed this week, but settled for holding it on his lap and thinking about what experiments he would run if he had unsupervised access to a lab. He'd moved on to wondering if he could pickpocket the lab key from Mary without her noticing when someone rapped on his door again. 

"Go away."

The doorknob jiggled and Sherlock tensed, but then John spoke. "It's me."

Sherlock was out of bed and halfway across the room before it occurred to him to ask, "Are you alone?"

"Yeah, of course I'm alone. Tay and Campbell just watched Syracuse win and now Indiana's leading Iowa. Let me in."

Sherlock opened the door but didn't step aside. "Did Mary send you?"

"Mary?" The look of confusion on John's face was sincere enough that Sherlock could tell he hadn't known that the girls had tried to drag him out of the room. "No, I just didn't want you to have to sit here alone."

Sherlock took a step backwards, but still didn't move out of the way. "It's after ten. I was just going to go to sleep." 

"All right," John said. "Then I'll sleep with you." He stepped into the room and Sherlock gave way before him, torn between telling John he wasn't in the mood and forcing himself to be in the mood. 

As it turned out he didn't need to be in the mood for anything other than sleep. John took off his trousers and got into bed first, scooting on his side until his back was against the wall. "Come on." He lifted his arm, beckoning Sherlock to join him. "Nope, on your side," he said, and Sherlock turned over so his back was against John's chest. John let his arm fall over Sherlock's side. "This okay?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded without lifting his head from the pillow. He supposed now John would want to talk about the last few days, and try to convince Sherlock that he was being foolish to try to hide from the rest of the campus, but having to listen to that was an acceptable trade-off for the warmth of John's body behind his and the comfort of John's arm casually draped over him. He closed his eyes and waited for John to start talking, enjoying the quiet in the interim. But John didn't start talking and after a few minutes Sherlock realized that the warm breath on the back of his neck was so slow and steady because John was asleep. The room's overhead light was still on, and Sherlock hadn't brushed his teeth, and Anderson would probably come wandering in at any moment now, but he would worry about all that later. He let his own breathing slow to match John's and closed his eyes.

He woke up once in the middle of the night to use the loo and then burrow under the covers again next to John, and he was vaguely aware that at some early-morning hour Anderson came back from wherever he had spent the night and John left so he could get ready for his internship, but on the whole Sherlock had a very good night's sleep. He didn't even hear the text alert that he saw when he finally woke up and checked his phone. Lestrade had sent the team a group message. _Practice canceled. Whole team needs to meet at gym, 5pm. Wear home uniform._

They wouldn't be playing, not with a game the next day. What were they doing, having a team photo taken?

Anderson didn't come back to their room all day, which was surprising, since Sherlock would've expected him to nag about going to meals or being ready in his uniform so they could be at the gym promptly at five. John showed up a little before then to walk with him to the athletic center; the rest of the team must have already headed over. 

Lestrade was pacing outside the gymnasium when they got there. He had on one of his game day suits, and had even added a tie. He exhaled in visible relief when he saw them.

"All right. Here's the thing, guys. I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't want you to have to worry about it, but the school has arranged to do a press conference today. To address the uh, issues that have arisen since the article in the _Times Union_."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Issues."

"Yes." Lestrade cleared his throat and looked him in the eye. "We'll be putting out a statement making it clear that the school and everyone associated with it supports the two of you. And that we won't tolerate any sort of protest or harassment."

"O-kay," John said slowly, looking around the lobby of the athletic center, which was otherwise empty. "And when and where is this press conference?"

Lestrade nodded toward the closed gymnasium doors. "AD Tompkins just got here, so we're just waiting for President Harris." 

"What?" John looked around the lobby again, as if cameras might have appeared in the previous three seconds. "You can't just expect us to walk into something like that unprepared. You said you were going to keep the media away from us!"

Lestrade shook his head, raising a hand to placate John. "No, you two aren't going to have to say anything. You'll just sit behind us with the rest of the team. Tompkins and Harris both have statements prepared. Any questions will be directed at them or me, not at you two. That's one of the conditions we set when we invited the media."

"Couldn't you just have sent out a press release or something?" Sherlock muttered.

"We could have, but we thought getting everyone assembled for a photo op would make a bigger statement." He nodded toward the gymnasium, then leaned against one of the doors to push it open. "It ended up being bigger than we expected." 

"More reporters?" John asked.

"A few. But mostly—" Lestrade nodded for John and Sherlock to go through the door ahead of him. 

Sherlock hesitated, unwilling to face an entire gymnasium full of members of the press, but when he looked past Lestrade he saw no more than a dozen cameras set up on the floor. There were a few people wearing media badges sitting in folding chairs that had been arranged in rows at half court, and a few more standing nearby, but it was immediately clear that the number of reporters was not what Lestrade meant when he said the press conference was bigger than expected.

AD Tompkins was seated at the table in between the bleachers, where the scorers sat during games. He was the only person there at the moment, but the stands to either side of him were packed, not with reporters but with students. The basketball team dominated the front row to Tompkins's left, but every row behind them was filled as well, as were the bleachers to his right. 

"What—" John began, and trailed off, looking back and forth from the stands to Lestrade.

"After I talked to Tompkins and Harris yesterday and we set up this conference, I mentioned it to a couple of the other coaches on campus, and they said some of their players wanted to come show their support, too, and well. I guess word spread. I think every team is here, and we actually had to turn away students who weren't athletes just because we didn't have the space."

Sherlock looked again as he followed Lestrade and John into the gym and sure enough, most of the people on the bleachers were in uniform—he saw the whole women's basketball team and also the cheerleaders, and the men's and women's volleyball teams, and lacrosse, and hockey and field hockey and soccer, every sport he could think of. Even the football team was there, wearing their full pads so they took up more space than they should have. 

Lestrade crossed the court to join Tompkins at the scoring table while Sherlock and John went over to the team. As they approached, Sherlock noticed something strange enough to distract his attention from the fact that there were hundreds of his fellow student-athletes sitting here because of him. 

John noticed it as well. "What the hell are you guys wearing on your feet?" he asked Tay, who sat at the end of the row. "Work boots?"

"Nope." Tay raised his eyebrows and stuck out his feet, which looked even larger than they usually did, because he, like everyone else on the team, was wearing tall, black, steel-toed boots. "They're not work boots, they're—"

"Combat boots," Sherlock said.

"Yep." Tay pulled his legs back in. "Just for you."

"Oh my God," Sherlock said, and couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"I don't understand," John said, turning to Sherlock to explain.

"Combat boots," Sherlock repeated. "Remember? Back in December, right after Brez quit the team, Anderson said something stupid about me wanting to see Lestrade in heels, and then Tay said no, I'd want to see him in—"

"Combat boots." Both John and Tay finished the sentence with him.

"You guys are all insane," Sherlock said. "You actually all went out and bought boots because of a dumb joke?"

"No, we went out and bought boots to show we support you two," Tay said. "So appreciate it. We spent $150 each and some of us were saving that up for our summer sneaker funds."

"I can't believe you did that," John said, but he was grinning. "Move over." 

Tay slid down the bench and everyone pressed in tighter to allow John and Sherlock to sit on the end. 

"Where did you even find boots like that?" John asked.

"We all skipped class and went to the Army/Navy store this morning." 

"And they had all your sizes in stock?" Sherlock never had a problem finding shoes, but even he was edging into the upper sizes of what was regularly carried.

"No, the biggest they had was a 15. I'm pretty sure Noah can't actually walk in his."

Sherlock bit at his cheek to keep himself from laughing, then blinked away an unexpected surge of gratefulness. He needed to look serious and unaffected in case there were cameras running already.

A minute later President Harris arrived and took her place at the podium that had been set up in the middle of the table where Lestrade and Tompkins sat. After welcoming everyone, she read a prepared statement that elaborated on what Lestrade had told them the press conference would cover: how the school was committed to providing an inclusive and supportive community for all, regardless of orientation; how they would not allow any type of bias or discrimination on their campus and would take appropriate academic or legal action against anyone who harassed or abused any of their students; and how the college would not interfere with the personal lives of any of its students, who of course all understood that sexual relations outside of the sacrament of marriage were not permitted by the Catholic Church. 

Sherlock tried not to laugh out loud at that part, though he had to admit that it felt good to hear the school announce that it was officially on their side, even if nothing President Harris said was particularly ground-breaking. As the speech went on, he allowed himself to relax slightly, sinking back against the bleacher behind him and for once not worrying that he and John were touching at thigh and arm. 

When Harris was done, AD Tompkins got up and said basically the same thing, with a bit more emphasis on sports and how all the athletes at Barts were a family. Sappy drivel, but strangely comforting to hear. 

Then it was Lestrade's turn. He stood up, clearing his throat, and said, "You all know I'm not one for formal speeches, and almost everything I want to say has already been said, but I do want to tell you how proud I am of these young men behind me. I'm proud of John and Sherlock, for being brave enough to show their true selves to the world, and I'm also proud of the rest of our team. I'm not really sure how the work boots figure into it, but I know none of these guys have hesitated in their support for their teammates. We could all learn a few lessons from their example." 

Everyone sitting in the bleachers behind them started to applaud; Lestrade seemed a little thrown off by the reaction when he resumed talking. "So, uh, thank you for coming and listening to us today, and...."

"Coach Lestrade!" A call came from the stands on the other half of the gym. Sherlock turned his head to see a middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar climbing down the steps to the bottom of the bleachers. Definitely a coach—he squinted at the players she'd been sitting with, but whatever team they were, the girls weren't wearing their regulation uniforms but were dressed in matching rainbow-colored t-shirts.

"Softball coach," John whispered to him. 

"Ah." He watched her join Lestrade at the podium. 

"I'm Jen Ricoletti, head coach of the softball team. My players are here today because they want John and Sherlock to know that they support them." She paused until the whoops of agreement coming from her team died down. "And my team also wants everyone else to know that starting today, John and Sherlock will no longer be the only out athletes on campus." She turned and raised one arm, motioning toward the bleachers, and four of the rainbow-shirted women who sat at the end of one row stood up, arms slung around each other's shoulders.

"Of course they're gay—they're softball players," Sherlock whispered, and John elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Shut up—they just outed themselves to support us," John said, and then started to clap, a motion that was once more quickly echoed by the rest of the students in the stands. 

Amid the applause, more people began to stand—not a lot, but a few here and there: three field hockey players, and women from the lacrosse, soccer and swim teams. Two women's basketball players stood, though Sherlock didn't know either of them well. He twisted in his seat to look around the gym as the cameras started to flash, glad that for once they were not focused on him or John. No men were standing, though he could see from their postures that a couple of guys on the track team were at least considering it. He didn't blame them for hesitating, not at all. Coming out publicly was definitely not something he would recommend. 

He still would have preferred that everyone didn't know about him and John, but obviously it was too late for that. Their teammates had been saying they weren't alone for months now, and today, sitting amidst several hundred more people who were pledging their support, Sherlock was finally starting to believe it. He knew he would still have to face hostile crowds who tried to use his relationship against him, but there would also always be even more people who would continue to make sure the insults were drowned out by the cheers.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this there is one. More. Chapter.  
> *falls down on floor and dies of relief*

Saturday was their second-to-last regular season game, on the road at Merrimack College, north of Boston. Barts had beaten them earlier in the season, but the game had been close, so everyone was worried that they might not win today. Sherlock wasn't worried about that at all—Merrimack's starting center had broken his ankle and their best shooter was suspended for academic reasons—but he was concerned that the crowd would be even more hostile than normal now that everyone knew about him and John. 

As it turned out, no one needed to worry at all. Not only were the Barts cheerleaders ready to drown out any insults with their new cheer, but apparently the Merrimack student section had been warned that anyone caught shouting homophobic slurs would be banned from attending future games. Sherlock and John combined for 23 points, but even if neither of them had scored at all Barts still would have won; the final score was 85-60. The bus ride home was the loudest one Sherlock had ever experienced, as the team celebrated the fact that the win guaranteed them a number one seed for the upcoming conference tournament. Not only would they get a bye and not have to play in the first round, but since Appledore was going to be the other number one seed, Barts wouldn't have to play them unless they both made it to the finals.

When they got back to campus, Sherlock dumped his bag in his room and then headed to John's to continue their own celebration, which lasted most of the night. 

On Sunday they finally emerged from John's bedroom around noon. Campbell and Tay were already up, deep into a game on the Xbox. Sherlock went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards in case anyone had bought more food since he'd last checked, while John stumbled into the adjoining living room and collapsed facedown onto the sofa.

"Hey, lovers," Tay said, without looking away from the television screen. "You going to the Valentine's Day dinner?"

Sherlock found a not-quite-empty box of Frosted Mini-Wheats and joined the others in the living room. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on. You must've seen the flyers."

"Flyers?" He never bothered to read flyers; they were always posted all over campus and they were always boring and pointless.

John lifted his head from the sofa and squinted at Tay, then at Sherlock. "We could go, you know. I went with Mary two years ago, and it was kind of nice."

"Go where?" 

"To the Valentine's dinner at the student center." John rolled over and sat up. "They turn that big conference room into a fancy reception hall."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at him. "Is it today?" 

"Oh my God, Sherlock." Tay paused the videogame, cackling with laughter. "How are you so smart and so completely oblivious at the same time?"

"I'm not oblivious to things that are relevant to me. Why would I pay attention to Valentine's Day?"

"John?" Tay said, though whether he was asking John or answering Sherlock's question was unclear.

"No, it's okay." John patted the sofa cushion next to him, inviting Sherlock to sit down. "I mean, I know we're not exactly the most romantic couple, so I can see how you wouldn't think it was our sort of thing. But I had fun going with Mary, and I think it'd be nice to go with you, too." 

Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa and set the cereal box on the coffee table, trying to figure out what he was supposed to say. John had, on numerous occasions, made it very clear that nothing he had done with Mary could compare to being with Sherlock—why would he now want to do something that he did with her?

"The food is good," John said. "It costs a little bit but it's worth it." 

That in itself was worthy of note, if John was willing to spend money on an unnecessary meal. "We...," Sherlock began. It wasn't that he was opposed to a romantic dinner with John in and of itself, but the idea of having one in the middle of the student center, surrounded by other people, was less appealing. "I assume there are a lot of other students who attend this dinner?"

"Yeah, of course. A lot of couples. But Sherlock—we could do it. It doesn't matter if people see us. We don't need to hide anymore."

"No, but—"

"No, come on. Let's do it. Let's go out on a date on Valentine's Day like everybody else. We hid inside all last Sunday—I don't want to do that again." 

Sherlock tilted his head at him. "I am absolutely certain that you enjoyed yourself last Sunday."

"Well, yeah, I mean...."

"Are you blushing?" Campbell twisted in his gaming chair to look at John. "What did you two do last Sunday?"

"Nothing!" they both replied.

John cleared his throat. "Anyway. I don't want to spend Valentine's Day staring at these idiots. Let's go."

Sherlock nodded slowly. He would do it because John wanted to. "So do we have to dress up?"

"Yes. Well, you don't, since these days you're always wearing a suit when you bother to get dressed. But I'll wear one, too." 

They spent the rest of the afternoon doing nothing more productive than watching Tay and Campbell play games and occasionally joining in. Sherlock made his weekly call to his mother; she'd found out about the newspaper article outing him and John but he assured her that everything was now fine. He didn't even have to lie very much; he just omitted a few details.

Shortly before six, he went back to his dorm to change for dinner. As John had pointed out, putting on a suit didn't feel particularly special anymore, but seeing John in one was a different story. John was no longer on campus for classes on game days, and Sherlock hadn't seen him dressed up since before the Christmas break. When he showed up at Sherlock's door now, the cut of his trousers and the way the jacket moved over the muscles in his back and shoulders made Sherlock want to grab him by the tie and haul him into his bed, but instead he grabbed his Belstaff from his closet and followed him out of the building.

He tried to push aside the self-consciousness he felt as they walked across campus. It wasn't that he didn't want people to see them together—he just hated that it was such a big deal for everyone else. None of their teammates' romantic lives were newsworthy, and his and John's shouldn't be either. 

When they got to the student center, there was a line of people waiting outside the conference room. They joined it and Sherlock pulled out his wallet. "How much is it?" He craned his neck, trying to see the sign posted on the ticket table at the front of the line. 

John laid his hand over Sherlock's and pushed it and his wallet down, back toward his pocket. "Don't worry about it. It was my idea, so I'll pay."

Sherlock opened his mouth to object and then closed it. He might not pay attention to some things, but he'd learned his lesson when it came to arguing with John about money.

When it was their turn to buy their tickets John held out the money and the girl at the table took it, then glanced up at him, eyes widening. Her gaze darted over to Sherlock for a moment before she quickly looked down at the money again. Sherlock knew he'd have to get used to those double takes, but he wasn't yet. He tried to peer into the conference room to see if there were any other same-sex couples, but the lights inside were too dim for him to see very far. Well, that was good at least; maybe no one would be able to see them. 

John didn't even blink at the girl selling the tickets—Sherlock needed to learn how to do that, how to act as if bringing his boyfriend on an elaborate dinner date were a completely ordinary event.

"There are corsages, er, um, boutonnieres for ten dollars if you're interested." The girl pointed to another table near the entrance.

"No, thank you," John said, and slipped his wallet into his back pocket. He stepped toward the door to the conference room. The girl at the table had already moved on to the next couple, but Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second, working up his nerve. Without turning around, John reached back and grabbed him by the wrist. Sherlock was startled into following him, and when he drew even, John switched his grip so he was clasping him by the hand. They walked into the room side-by-side, holding hands. 

"Let's sit in the back." Sherlock used his left hand to point to an empty table so he didn't have to let go of John with his right. He led them through the maze of small tables, each adorned with a candle and a rose, ignoring all the whispers he heard—or imagined—as they passed by people who recognized them. 

Almost as soon as they were seated, a waiter arrived to light the candle on their table and offer them a limited but fairly extravagant menu. They both ordered steak and salad. Once the waiter had gone, Sherlock found it was easier than he'd expected to shut out everyone else in the large room and focus only on John. It helped that no one around them was paying any attention to the two of them; the couples at the nearby tables were too busy giggling and flirting with each other. None of them seemed worried about who saw them do what—Sherlock wanted to be that carefree. And he could be. He was.

His untroubled attitude slipped a bit a few minutes later. The waiter had just given them their salads when two men holding hands approached their table. _Oh, God, they're going to say we're role models and ask for our autographs._ He was used to giving autographs, but not to being a role model.

"Um, hi." The shorter of the two men gave them a shaky smile. "My name is Leo and this is Devin. I'm the president of Barts Pride, and um." He paused and glanced at his boyfriend, who giggled and made a "go on" motion with his hand. "We just wanted to thank you for making the queer student population on campus more visible in a positive way."

Sherlock took a deep breath, running through possible responses, most of which involved telling Leo that he'd had no intention of making anyone visible at all. John must have known what he was going to say, because he kicked Sherlock's ankle under the table and said, "You're very welcome. Glad we could help."

Sherlock lowered his head and picked up his fork to start on his salad. If John wanted to handle this by being polite, that was fine. But Leo wasn't done. "Our club meets every Tuesday night at seven, and we were wondering if either—or both—of you were interested in coming to our meetings?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes to watch John's reaction; he could see him struggling to find a polite way to refuse. _My turn._ "No," he said, and took a bite of his salad to signal that the conversation was over.

Leo glanced at Sherlock, then addressed John. "We've always been treated as a bit of a fringe group on campus, but your popularity could help—"

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful of lettuce, preparing to repeat himself, but John answered first. "Sorry." He leaned back in his chair and smiled at Leo, looking fairly sincere. "Look, we appreciate the offer, but we don't have time for any activities besides basketball. We have practice every evening and I'm working a full-time internship and—no, it just wouldn't work. Sorry."

"Oh." Leo glanced at Sherlock again but apparently decided John was still the better choice. "Well, when does your season end? Maybe—"

"You're interrupting our date," Sherlock said. "Please leave." He stared at Leo, anticipating another kick in the ankle from John, but sometimes privacy was more important than politeness.

Leo looked like he was about to say something else, but Devin tugged him away from the table. Sherlock didn't bother to watch them leave—he had no desire to acknowledge their existence any further.

John grimaced. "I guess I understand why he'd ask, but it's not really something I'm interested in, plus he has terrible timing." He shook his head and began to eat his own salad. 

As they ate, John told Sherlock about what he'd seen at the hospital lately. Since Sherlock hadn't really left his room over the past week, he didn't have any interesting stories to tell John in return, but he did enjoy John's medical anecdotes.

When he finished his salad, John moved his plate out of the way, then tipped the vase that held a single red rose toward himself, inhaling deeply. 

Sherlock had never noticed John being particularly fussy about scents before, but based on his expression he clearly enjoyed the rose. "Should I have bought you a boutonniere?"

"What? No." John pushed the vase back to the edge of the table. "I just like the smell of roses. Reminds me of my grandma's garden."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "So it's not romantic, it's...elderly?"

John laughed. "It's both, I guess. Depends on the circumstances. Put a single rose on a table and dim the lights, then it's romantic."

"All right." He drummed his fingers on the table. "So did you and Mary get a corsage and a boutonniere?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what? You said you brought her here last year." 

"It was two years ago and yes, I did. And I had the steak, then, too, but she had lobster. But it doesn't matter because Mary cannot compare to you and I'm here with you now, all right? You do not need to buy me a corsage to win me over."

"Boutonniere."

"Whatever. Let's talk about something non-floral, okay?"

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "Sorry. What does one talk about on a romantic dinner date?"

"Anything we want. Like we have been up until now. And Sherlock, we went out to dinner together before, remember? Your birthday?"

"I don't remember what we talked about."

"That's because we didn't talk about anything special. And we don't need to now. We can just be ourselves." He leaned forward, his arms on the table, hands spread wide, palms up toward Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded, resisting the urge to look around. He laid his hands on top of John's and John wrapped his fingers around his. John's hands were warm and dry. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed for a moment and exhaled, narrowing his attention once more to only John—everything else in the room was gone. _This._ This was how they should be on a date, not thinking about anything besides themselves. 

The main course came a few minutes later, and it was delicious. Sherlock's steak was tender and pink in the middle while John's was burned to a crisp, which he apparently enjoyed. It had been a while since Sherlock had a proper multi-course meal, and it made him feel more adult than his usual habit of either eating everything in sight in the dining hall or grazing on snack food all day in his or John's room. Plus the food was several levels above what the team usually ate at the restaurants they frequented when they were on the road.

As the meal went on, he grew more and more comfortable. John was right—they didn't need to talk about anything in particular to enjoy themselves. He even reached the point where he was able to mention Mary without an accompanying surge of jealousy. "Do you know where she learned how to pick locks?" he asked John.

"Pick locks?" John shook his head. "No, but it doesn't really surprise me. She was always coming up with slightly sketchy skills like that."

"Interesting." Sherlock took a sip of his water.

"Okay, now you've got me worried. Which is interesting, Mary or the lock-picking?"

"Both. But don't worry, I'm just intrigued, not attracted to her."

"Good. Really wasn't worried about that. But why are you always so interested in crime and stuff like that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't worry about that, either. I don't plan to become a criminal."

"Well, I imagine most people who end up criminals don't plan on it," John said. "Good thing you've got me to keep you away from a life of crime." 

Sherlock felt his grin start to fade, because John wouldn't always be around, would he? Next year he'd be in medical school, but Sherlock would still be here, and would they even still be together? He made himself stop thinking about it before he derailed his own enjoyment of the meal.

As they were getting ready to leave, Leo and Devin passed by their table again. Sherlock steeled himself for another round of awkward pleading but all Leo said was, "Did you enjoy your meal?"

John looked down at his empty dessert plate, then back up at Leo. "Yeah. Yeah, we did." He grinned at Sherlock, who nodded warily.

"Good," Leo said. "I'm glad you two get to do this like the rest of us now. Wouldn't be fair if you had to keep hiding. You'd miss out on a lot of good stuff. Have a nice night! And good luck if you have any more games to play!"

Sherlock scoffed as Leo and Devin walked away. "'If you have any more games to play.' He doesn't even know about the tournament."

"Guess he's not a basketball fan," John said. "Though it is strange to be recognized by people who don't even watch us play." 

Sherlock nodded, then let out an overly dramatic sigh. "I suppose I should get used to the attention. I do plan on being famous someday."

John laughed.

"I'm serious." 

"Okay. So what do you plan on being famous for?"

"I haven't decided yet, but it will happen."

John laughed again. "I'm sure it will. Can I be famous with you?"

"Hmm. You'll be a doctor. Do you want to be famous for that?"

John shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I can be your sidekick. Or your partner. Well, depending on what you're famous for. Nothing too illegal or I'll lose my medical license."

Sherlock smiled and stood up to put on his coat. "I told you I'm not planning on a life of crime." He really wasn't sure what he would do after college, but it was strangely reassuring to hear John casually assume that he would still be there at his side.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NCAA tournament is the national championship tournament for college basketball. Any team that wins their conference championship (such as the Northeast-10 tournament depicted in this chapter) gets an automatic bid to play in the NCAAs. At the Division II level there 24 men's basketball conferences nationwide. 64 teams play in the NCAA tournament, with the additional 40 teams selected based on a number of factors relating to their performance throughout the season.

Barts won their final regular-season game on the Wednesday after Valentine's Day, beating New Haven by eight points; it would have been more, but Lestrade gave the bench significant playing time in the second half. Their first Northeast-10 tournament game wasn't until the last Sunday in February, which gave them nearly two weeks to prepare. Lestrade worked them hard for the first week, with strength and agility training and plenty of intra-squad scrimmages, tapering off as the tournament grew closer.

On Friday, they gathered in the athletic center to watch the broadcast of the first-round games. Franklin Pierce University beat American International College, which meant Barts would face Franklin Pierce at home on Sunday. Barts had beaten them by three points back in December, though Sherlock hadn't played much in that game. 

When they met this time, Sherlock played for 34 of the game's 40 minutes and had 17 points; Barts won by 14. Their semi-final game against Stonehill the following Wednesday was closer, though Barts won by nine points in the end. Sherlock was held to under ten points, but John led the team in scoring, steals and assists, and even managed a few rebounds. 

The only negative to come from the quarter and semi-final rounds was the fact that Appledore also won both their games just as easily, which meant Barts would face them in the championship. And since Barts had lost their matchup earlier in the season, the game would be held on Appledore's home court.

Sherlock knew they were capable of winning, even though their record for the season wasn't quite as impressive as Appledore's. He spent the two days between the semifinals and the finals trying to distract John from thinking about playing against Moriarty and Moran again; he himself was more worried about meeting John's mother and sister when they came out to watch the game.

Lestrade decided that they should travel to Appledore on Friday and spend the night in a hotel so they wouldn't be rushed the next morning. While Sherlock did like the idea of having extra time to warm up on the unfamiliar court, he knew a hotel meant he and John would have to spend the night apart, as they had during the tournament before Christmas. When they got to the hotel, he followed Anderson into one of the rooms, assuming they would be stuck together again. 

Anderson dropped his bag on one of the beds. "Here's the thing," he said to Sherlock. "And I don't want to hear you complain about me having had Sally over back in the fall, or Julia starting next weekend, I hope." 

Sherlock wrinkled his brow at him; he spent a lot of weekend nights in John's bed anyway, so he probably wouldn't even notice if Anderson brought a girl back at this point. 

"So since Brez left we're down to 14 players. Which means there can be one room with only two people instead of four." Anderson raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Do you see what I'm getting at here?"

Sherlock nodded. They would need to make sure Lestrade and the rest of the coaching staff didn't find out, but that wouldn't be difficult. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well, if Jenkins snores as much as he did last time, I might come back in the middle of the night. Make sure you and John finish whatever you're doing early."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and resolved to steal Anderson's key card to the room as soon as he got the chance.

The team had dinner together and spent a couple of hours watching film of Appledore's two tourney wins before Lestrade sent everyone to their rooms with instructions to get a good night's sleep. Anderson switched rooms with John about fifteen minutes later, and an hour after that, Sherlock found himself naked and satisfied and half-asleep next to John. 

"It might be my last game ever tomorrow." 

John's words brought Sherlock partway back to consciousness. "No, it won't."

"Could be." John exhaled and rolled away from Sherlock, pulling the sheet and blanket up to his neck.

Sherlock felt his eyes trying to close again, but he forced himself to turn on his side and scoot nearer to John. "It won't be your last game," he repeated. Last year the conference had sent more than one team to the NCAAs, so even if Barts did lose tomorrow, they would likely still get a bid to the national tournament. But he knew that sort of logic wasn't what John needed to hear right now. He moved even closer, so John's back was against his chest, and pulled him tight with his left arm. "We're going to win tomorrow."

"I hope so," John replied.

"We will." He felt John relax slightly beneath his arm, which was good, because being so close and warm like this was only encouraging Sherlock to fall asleep. He rested his chin against the top of John's head and closed his eyes.

The next day after breakfast and a light practice and then lunch, the team gathered in Appledore's visitors' locker room, which was a fairly run-down space. There were old-fashioned rows of metal lockers punctuated by benches running down the middle of the aisles and only a small area for the visiting team to gather and finalize their game strategy. 

Most of the team sat on the floor so they could stretch while Lestrade went over the final details. John found a folding chair and sat backward in it, leaning forward against the chair's back while Stamford gave his shoulder a massage.

Sherlock sat on the floor next to him. "When did it start bothering you?"

"It's not bothering me," John said, without looking at him. "I'm just making sure it stays loose."

"Okay."

"Don't you start on the psychosomatic shit again. Ow."

"Sorry," Stamford said. "You started to tense up there for a second."

Sherlock watched John for a few moments longer, then made himself look away. He needed to make sure he himself was ready for the game. He lay back on the floor, closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his chin as he pictured the court he'd built in his mind. The whole team was there, dressed and warmed up and ready to play their best together. Outside of the gymnasium was an entire wing of the building filled with his memories of being alone with John—he made sure the door to that section was locked for now. He'd built a basement, as well, and banished to it all the people who objected to the fact that he and John were together. Nothing could distract him from his game now. He was ready.

When it was time to go out to the court to warm up, Sherlock felt a brief flutter of nerves that he quickly worked to tamp down. The audience was the biggest he'd ever played in front of. Appledore supporters made up the bulk of the crowd, of course, but Barts had chartered four extra buses to carry all the students who wanted to attend, and there were several hundred more Barts fans filling the stands behind their bench. Even Mrs. Hudson had made the trip; her purple dress matched the school colors and she was waving a Bloodhounds flag. The game was being nationally televised, though Sherlock was more nervous about the fact that he knew that John's mother and sister were here today, though John hadn't introduced them yet. If he looked closely at the crowd he would doubtless be able to pick them out, but he didn't let himself do that now. Why should it even matter? He had spent the last few weeks conditioning himself to not care what other people thought of him, though maybe John's family was different. He could worry about that after the game. 

Noah went up against Moran for the tip-off; he'd become much more confident in his skills since they'd played back in January, and he used his longer reach to direct the ball toward John, who was poised outside the center circle next to Moriarty.

John leapt past Moriarty and grabbed the ball out of the air, turning before he landed to protect the ball from being stolen. The Barts team immediately fell into place as John began to run their offense. Sherlock got the ball off a pass from Jenkins, but Appledore was already double-teaming him, having learned their lesson after the 28 points he'd scored the last time they met. He faked a drive to his right, then passed the ball back to Jenkins, who had set up down low by the basket. Jenkins took a shot but it was blocked by Moran. Appledore got the rebound and quickly moved the ball down to the opposite basket to score the first two points of the game.

Rather than being dismayed by that start, Sherlock was optimistic. Everyone had run the play John called perfectly, even if it hadn't resulted in a basket, and best of all, John had shown no hesitation in his play.

His satisfaction slipped a bit when they failed to score on their next possession as well, but it was still early, and being down by four points didn't mean much this early in the game. Two minutes into the game, John put Barts on the board for the first time—he passed to Sherlock, and his defender followed the ball, so Sherlock immediately threw it back to John, who hit a 15-foot fadeaway jumper.

The Barts players ran back to set up on defense, and Moriarty brought the ball up the court, twirling one hand in the air to signal a play to his team. As soon as he crossed half-court, John picked him up on defense, mirroring his moves but keeping a good bit of distance between them since Moriarty wasn't known for his long-range shooting. Moriarty continued to dribble; Sherlock split his attention between him and the man he was defending, ready to move should Moriarty pass the ball. But as the seconds ticked on, Moriarty continued to dribble back and forth, dancing closer and farther from John but never actually trying to pass or shoot the ball. The shot clock fell below ten seconds, and Sherlock thought Moriarty would certainly make a move, but John moved first—he dove for the ball, trying to steal, and knocked it out of bounds in the process.

Since John had touched the ball last, Appledore kept possession. As both teams scrambled to get into position for the inbound pass, Sherlock found himself standing near Moriarty, who sidled closer to him than he needed to be. "Nice job, Sherlock. Looks like you fixed him up right."

Sherlock frowned, though he was used to hearing trash talk from other players. Moriarty's words weren't exactly insulting, but his tone was certainly disturbing. 

Moriarty grinned at his confusion and moved closer. He raised one hand and let it brush against Sherlock's jersey; Sherlock flinched away. It was perfectly normal to keep a hand on the player you were defending, but Moriarty was on offense right now. He should've been facing his teammate who had the ball on the sideline, not looking at Sherlock. 

Moriarty snickered and finally turned away to face the ball. "Almost can't tell John was broken last year," he said, voice as casual as if they were two friends chatting. "Must be you've got the magic touch, hmm?" 

Sherlock didn't let himself dwell on the words. If Moriarty thought making some sort of insinuation about him and John was going to affect him at this point, he was mistaken. They'd played five games since he and John had come out to the public, and by now Sherlock had perfected the art of ignoring anyone who tried to use their relationship against them. Moriarty tittering over his own innuendo wasn't going to bother him at all.

Once the ball was back in play, Appledore immediately hit a baseline jumper. Barts responded with two points of their own, but Moriarty picked up the pace of his team's play and they stayed ahead. By five minutes into the game, the score was 8-12 in Appledore's favor. 

As Barts gathered on the sideline during their first timeout, Sherlock watched John carefully, but he showed no sign of his shoulder bothering him, and his play had not been hesitant at all. The team's play as a whole was a bit more uneven than normal, but that was to be expected. No one on the team had ever been this far in post-season collegiate play—John, Tay, Campbell and Anderson had only made it as far as the quarterfinals of this tournament two years ago. 

Lestrade substituted Anderson in for Jenkins, giving them more options to shoot from a distance. The strategy worked, somewhat: after Anderson made the first three he attempted, Appledore was forced to stop double-teaming Sherlock constantly, which freed him up to take more shots. Sherlock added another two points, and Tay dunked on a fast break, but then Barts hit a dry spell where none of their shots would fall and Appledore was able to increase their lead. 

Lestrade reworked the lineup several more times, but it didn't help. Sherlock had eight points and two assists, Noah blocked three shots, John worked as hard as ever to get the ball to whoever was open, and Campbell and Anderson both added points when they were in, but collectively Barts just wasn't able to score as much as Appledore. Lestrade switched their defense to a zone, hoping to use Tay's and Noah's size to their fullest, but though they did manage to keep Moran from scoring down low, Appledore's other players picked up the slack.

After another minutes-long stretch where Barts couldn't get a shot to fall and Appledore couldn't miss, John signaled for a timeout. Lestrade asked him if he was all right as he dropped down onto the bench. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, but this isn't working," John said. "We shouldn't be this far behind. The zone isn't working—we need to switch back to man-to-man and press them." He looked up to Lestrade for confirmation.

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah, all right, you can try, but don't kill yourselves with it, you've still got another half to play. Campbell, you go back in for Anderson and we'll see how it goes."

There were only four minutes left in the half, but running a full court press made it feel like even longer. Sherlock, John and Campbell were the fastest men on the team, so they were the ones doing most of the work, covering Appledore's players so they had to struggle even to inbound the ball after every Barts basket. It did work, somewhat; Appledore committed two turnovers in the last three minutes and Barts cut their lead to ten points, down from a high of fourteen.

John was always strong on defense, but now he seemed to be taking it to an extreme. It did prevent Appledore from moving the ball freely, but he was too aggressive, committing two fouls in the space of two minutes. Lestrade pulled him out of the game with a minute left in the half, though he told the rest of the team to keep using the press.

As Lestrade signaled for John to come out so Anderson could take the floor, John began to argue. He waved his hand toward the clock. "It's just another minute, let me stay in."

"No way, not with two fouls." Lestrade jabbed his finger toward the bench. "Get over here and sit your ass down." 

John grudgingly left the court, and Anderson came in. He wasn't as good a defender as John because he wasn't as fast or agile, but he also wasn't as worked up as John currently was, which made him more effective. He harried Appledore's guards enough that Sherlock was able to steal the ball when one of them tried to make a long pass to Moriarty.

The player he stole it from went down, skidding across the hardwood though Sherlock hadn't touched him. Moriarty was already past half-court, running in the opposite direction, expecting to have a fast break. Sherlock had the ball just inside the arc, less than 20 feet from the basket. The only other person nearby was Anderson, who was yelling at Sherlock to take the shot. It was a shot Sherlock knew he could make in his sleep, but he was suddenly gripped by urge to make more of a statement. They were down by ten but they weren't going to lose this game. He put the ball to the floor and started to run, three long steps toward the basket, then he launched himself into the air, bringing the ball up high with both hands and slamming it through the hoop. The first dunk he'd ever even attempted in a game, successful. 

The Barts cheerleaders and student section exploded, their bench was howling with approval, while Lestrade screamed at him that he was an idiot who should never do that again. Sherlock knew it had been a risky move to make—he was much more likely to miss a dunk than a simple jump shot—but all he cared about was the look of jealousy and disbelief on Moriarty's face as he slunk back down the court for the inbound play. The only way the moment could possibly have been better would have been if Sally Donovan had been there to see it.

Appledore scored another basket before the clock ran out, so Barts ended the half still down by ten, but Sherlock's dunk had resonated enough that everyone's spirits were buoyed as they headed into the locker room. 

Lestrade used that optimism to fire everyone up even more in his halftime pep talk. "I know we're down, but we're doing all right. Keep spreading the ball around—there's no benefit to them double-teaming Sherlock if everyone else is scoring. And keep your eye on Moriarty. He's a good point guard, but the rest of the team is too afraid to do anything unless he tells them to do it. We're better than that—we're a real team that works together. And that's how we win, all right? We're not dependent on just one person—everyone does their part."

He spent a few minutes diagramming some plays, everyone crowded around the small whiteboard Appledore provided in the visitors' locker room. "Okay, we've got almost ten minutes left. I want you all to go out there now and take some shots, stay loose and relaxed, all right? I know it took a little while for everyone to settle down in those first few minutes. I get it, this is a big stage to play on. But now that we're here, you can see it's just a game like any other. Go out there and play your best ball and we will win this game."

The locker room erupted as everyone jumped to their feet, shouting and hollering and generally making an uproar in the small space. Sherlock, caught up in the enthusiasm himself, glanced over to see John sitting on the floor at the edge of the room, knees up and chin resting on them, showing no inclination to join in the revelry. 

Sherlock maneuvered his way across the room, weaving past a dozen teammates who were busy bumping chests and slapping each other's bottoms. He squatted down next to John. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Shoulder okay?" 

"Fine." 

Sherlock gave him a quick once-over. He didn't look like he was in pain, though he didn't look comfortable, either. "If you keep sitting hunched over like that it's going to seize up."

John frowned and straightened up, dropping his shoulders. 

"Sure you're okay? Do you need Stamford again?"

John shook his head and Sherlock frowned. Usually John went out of his way to pump up the team at halftime, no matter the circumstances. 

Lestrade and Dimmock had already left the locker room, and some of the players were starting to go back out into the gym, as well. Sherlock stood up and jogged after Anderson, pulling him aside before he could go out the door.

Anderson looked down in surprise where Sherlock's hand gripped his arm. "What's wrong?"

"I need your help."

"Oh." Now he looked even more surprised. "Sure. What do you need?" 

"I need you to make sure Lestrade or anyone else doesn't come back in here for the next few minutes. I'm going to try to put John in a better frame of mind."

"Huh? What are you going to do?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows until comprehension finally dawned on Anderson's face.

"I—oh. Okay, yeah. That might be a good idea, if you're quick about it." 

His cooperation assured, Sherlock turned away from Anderson. He would probably have to let him have the room every weekend for the rest of the semester now, but if this worked, it would be worth it.

Anderson followed the rest of the guys out into the gym and Sherlock returned to where John was still sitting alone. He had slumped back into his previous position, arms wrapped around his legs. 

"Get up."

John didn't get up. "I can't have this be my last game ever, Sherlock. I can't. Not against Appledore."

"I told you, it won't be. Even if we lose, we'll probably still get a bid to the NCAAs. Last year the conference sent three teams. You know that. Now get up."

John slowly climbed to his feet, then reached down to pick up the bottle of Gatorade he'd been drinking. "Lestrade should probably leave Anderson in at point. I'm not doing any good out there."

"Don't be ridiculous. You had a few bad minutes. And you've been scoring steadily all night. You just need to get yourself collected again, get under control. And I'm going to help you with that." He turned and started walking away, toward the last row of lockers at the back of the room, knowing John would follow.

"What are you talking about?" John trailed after him.

"Come here." Sherlock beckoned John to join him between the bench and the narrow row of lockers, though there wasn't even enough room for them to stand without touching. No doubt the home-team locker room was much better, with modern, open areas for team meetings and roomy, personalized space for each player. But this location was fine for what Sherlock planned. "I estimate we have five minutes before anyone comes looking for us," he said, and pushed John back against the metal lockers, not as roughly as he could have, but not gently, either. 

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock plucked the Gatorade bottle out of John's hand and set it on the bench behind him. "You need to get your mind clear so you can focus on playing instead of worrying. And I'm going to help." He tipped his head down to give John a long, drawn-out kiss. John resisted for just a moment, then opened his mouth to return it, though Sherlock knew that it wouldn't be enough to calm him down all the way. 

He broke off the kiss, sliding his hands down John's chest until he reached his shorts. He slipped the fingers of both hands into the waistband, then pulled down both his shorts and underwear in one quick motion.

John dropped his hands to cover himself. "What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Anderson's covering for us. We've got five minutes. Let me do this for you, all right?" He raised an eyebrow, then dropped to his knees before John had a chance to respond. He ran his hand up the inside of John's bare left thigh, letting his nails scratch at the sensitive skin.

John huffed out an exhalation. "Oh God, this is a terrible idea. Do it." He grabbed Sherlock's hair with both hands and pulled his head forward. 

Sherlock shifted his weight on his knees so he didn't fall over, and took John's cock in his hand; it was already starting to harden. Which was good, because they really did need to be fast. He put his mouth on John, but teased with his lips for only a few seconds, then drew him in all the way. 

John's cock grew to fill Sherlock's mouth almost immediately. His taste was familiar by now, though he was a good deal sweatier than he normally was in this situation. Sherlock thought of all the people who'd done this to him after games, and how little he'd thought of them for doing it. He closed his eyes as he began to lick and suck, grateful he'd finally learned how much better the act was when the two people involved felt the same way about each other.

If John had been at all reluctant to do this now, he overcame it quickly, thrusting enthusiastically into Sherlock's mouth and tugging at his hair while Sherlock kept one hand at the base of his cock and let the other stroke farther back between his legs. A part of him wanted to drop a hand between his own legs, but John was the one who needed attention now; there would be time for more later tonight.

He needn't have worried about being able to finish in five minutes. Before long John's rhythmic thrusting and pulling of Sherlock's hair became more erratic, until he tightened his grip on Sherlock's head, mashing his face into his groin. Sherlock sucked hard and flicked one finger back against John's arse and then held still as John shivered and shuddered and came down his throat. 

John collapsed back against the lockers; Sherlock pulled off and swallowed and shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one had entered the locker room while he'd been distracted. He wiped at his mouth and stood up from his crouch, grazing his back on the bench in the middle of the aisle. 

"Jesus." John let his head fall against the lockers. "That was...wow. Unexpected, but good." He bent down to pull up his shorts, a little unsteadily, but Sherlock knew that shakiness would be short-lived. 

"Feel better now?"

John grinned. "Yeah, I do. And look at you, all smug with your tongue and your lips." He shook his head. "Don't go getting all cocky."

They both burst into laughter at his choice of words; they were still giggling when they left the locker room. Lestrade frowned at them as they walked across the court together, but didn't say anything as they each grabbed a ball and spent the final minutes of halftime shooting with the rest of the team.

Barts won control of the jump ball to start the second half, and Sherlock hit a three off an assist by John, which helped cement a more confident tone for the second half. Appledore responded immediately, though. Moran slammed home a dunk, shaking the backboard, and the game was on.

Sherlock was used to a fast-paced game, but today he played harder than he ever had before. Moriarty seemed to have taken his dunk at the end of the first half personally; he and his two guard had switched men so he was now guarding Sherlock himself. He was faster than Sherlock had realized, mirroring every move he made. At first he thought that would be a huge hindrance, but after a few plays Sherlock realized that no matter what the rest of the Barts team was doing, Moriarty was staying focused almost exclusively on him. Which was a little creepy but also worked to Barts's benefit, because as Lestrade had pointed out, while Sherlock had led the team in points over the second half of the season, they weren't dependent on only one player; everyone on the team could score.

Now that Moriarty was guarding Sherlock, he was also talking to him almost constantly. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, as Sherlock zigged and zagged, trying to get free to pass. "I was worried about little Johnny there for a while. But he's all better now, isn't he?" Moriarty danced around him. "Did you fix him again? What'd you do in that locker room, hmm, Sherlock? He's got a bit of a swagger now, unless that's just chafing."

Sherlock schooled his body's reaction, not letting himself betray anything to Moriarty. He passed the ball to Tay down low, and ran across the top of the key to rotate positions with Jenkins. 

Moriarty came with him. "Not going to answer me? Oh well. That's okay. Johnny's kind of boring now, anyway. I've got a new interest." He widened his eyes and grinned at Sherlock, who shrugged it off as Tay missed his shot but Noah grabbed the rebound and put it away. Moriarty could babble on about whatever he wanted, as long as Barts kept scoring. 

It wasn't easy, but they clawed their way back, reducing Appledore's lead to three points with ten minutes left in the game. Sherlock didn't score as much as he would've liked, but given that Moriarty was something of a mismatch in size for him, he was able to get a few shots off over his head. John kept the ball fed around the court, and sank a few shots himself, looking more in control than he had been earlier in the game. Sherlock almost wished he himself weren't playing, so he could sit on the bench and watch John. The way he powered past players twice his size, slipping in and out of the key before they could react, was beautiful to behold.

With about eight minutes left to play and fresh off a timeout, Anderson inbounded the ball to Sherlock. Tay was open, close to the net, and so was John, a bit farther away. He faked a pass to John, watching Moriarty lean in the direction he expected the ball to go, but instead of passing Sherlock went for the three-point shot, well beyond the arc. He angled himself toward Moriarty as he released the ball, knowing that since Moriarty was playing him so close he would draw the foul. It worked; Moriarty fell into him as he lunged to try to prevent him from shooting. They both went down, with Moriarty landing on top of Sherlock. Moriarty pushed himself up on his hands and lingered for a moment, leering, until Sherlock shoved him away. Moriarty rolled off him, giggling while Sherlock stood up, feeling more than usual like he needed to brush himself off.

His shot had gone wide but he went to the line for three free throws. Rather than dropping back to half-court or farther, Moriarty stood just behind Sherlock, above the arc. "Oh, Sherlock," he called. "That was a sneaky little play, wasn't it? I'm so proud of you. You should come play for our team next year."

Sherlock blocked him out along with the shouts from the rest of the crowd, burying Moriarty so far away in his mind that it was as if he were locked in a dungeon. He sank all three shots, tying the score at 65 apiece. The crowd roared, cheers from the Barts fans competing with the thunderous disapproval of the home crowd.

It was the first time they had been tied all game and Appledore tried to stall their momentum by calling a timeout. Tay blocked their first shot after the break, but Appledore got the rebound and converted it, pulling ahead again. Over the next seven minutes, Barts tied the score numerous times, but was never able to take the lead.

With under a minute remaining, both teams were running a full court press, not willing to give each other the advantage of even a second of rest. But Sherlock was faster than Moriarty, which meant when Appledore pressed, Sherlock could beat him down the court and be open for a pass. John fed him the ball—the temptation to try for another dunk was strong, but he stopped outside the arc instead and went for the three—a perfect shot, and they were ahead for the first time in the game. 

One of Appledore's guards grabbed the ball to inbound it, and Sherlock stayed in his face, waving his hands and jumping, forcing the Appledore player to run the baseline in order to get the ball in play within the five-second limit. He finally lobbed the ball past Sherlock, who scrambled down the court after it. He was too late to stop Moriarty from passing to Moran, who slammed down another decisive dunk.

They were down by one again, but there were still over twenty seconds on the clock. Lestrade used the team's last 30-second timeout to lay out a plan. "Anderson, you inbound the ball. Get it to John. John, you get it to whoever's open. I don't care who scores the winning basket, but one of you is going to do it. Got it? We only need two points. Go."

It took Anderson nearly the full five seconds to get the ball to John, but once John touched it he was off at top speed, dodging his defender and the next player who picked him up as well. Moriarty was still on Sherlock, of course, but Noah was open for the pass. Twelve seconds left. Noah dribbled for three of them, then found Tay at the baseline. Tay didn't have a great position, but he went for the shot anyway; it bounced off the rim and into Noah's hands, but Moran was between Noah and the basket, so he threw it back out to Sherlock. Five seconds, less. Moriarty was there, but Sherlock couldn't wait. He launched a jumper, hoping that if he missed, Noah or Tay would find a way to get the rebound.

The ball didn't go in. It ricocheted back, but not toward either Noah or Tay, who were posting up on either side of the basket. Sherlock moved toward the ball, but he was too late—John got there first, flying into the key from out of nowhere to grab the offensive rebound from the air and then release it again before his feet even touched the ground. A perfect putback shot, it gently kissed the backboard and dropped through the hoop as the game-ending buzzer sounded throughout the gymnasium. 

All the Barts players on the floor immediately swarmed together, whooping and shouting and reaching for John, but John pushed past them and jumped into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock caught him and held his weight as John wrapped his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck. His sweaty grin was too tempting to resist—Sherlock tipped his chin up and they were kissing, in front of their whole team and a few thousand strangers. It went on for several seconds, long enough for everyone who'd been on the Barts bench to reach and surround them, a mass of large, exuberant bodies pressing against theirs. 

"Sorry, Sherlock, you gotta share him right now," Tay said, and started to lift John higher. John released his arms and legs and let himself be raised up, until he was above Sherlock's head, held there by Tay and Campbell and the rest of the team. Sherlock put his arms up and held John, too, as the crowd around them grew, swelled by the coaches and team staff and cheerleaders and Barts students who'd traveled to the game, and then by the television cameras and reporters who were all shouting John's name. 

Sherlock let the frenzy wash over him, knowing that the bubble he was in would not last long. There would be interviews and posed team pictures, hats and t-shirts and a trophy proclaiming them champions. Someone would be chosen as Most Valuable Player—probably John, after that last shot. And after that John would introduce him to his family, and next week they would play another game, this time in front of an even bigger audience. They could even end up facing Appledore again, since they would also likely get a bid to the national tournament. But for now he was content to push all those future problems away and enjoy this one perfect moment while it lasted .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to [iriswallpaper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper) and MissOJ ([doublenegative](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative)), who had no idea they were making a years-long commitment when they agreed to beta this fic. And thank you to [RobinMistySaddle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinMistySaddle) for helping with the second half but even more for putting up with me so much behind the scenes.
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, I really hope you will check out my other work, especially my first long work, [Breakable,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520) which was much easier to write and is in my opinion a much better story. It's not as angsty as you might think, I promise. And subscribe to me as an author if you'd like to read what I write next!
> 
> Thank you to all of you who kept reading this and commenting and supporting me even when it took me months to update! Yay, it's finally over!
> 
> Come see me on [Tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/missdaviswrites) if you'd like! I'm MissDavisWrites in both places.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Basket(ball) Case](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074713) by [DulcimerGecko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko)




End file.
